


The Hunter's Season

by thechandrian



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Abuse, Bullying, Character Death, Drowning, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, mermaid au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechandrian/pseuds/thechandrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Achilles is a nereid, a mythical sea creature, and Patroclus is the prince of a country that is famous for hunting them. They meet and fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No harm intended, no profit made. I do not own The Song of Achilles. Please ignore the inevitable anachronisms, or inaccuracies in Greek mythology (all research was done more or less on wikipedia)
> 
> In Greek mythology, 'nereid' is another name for the sea nymphs but in this story they're a separate species.
> 
> Also, the characters in this story are based off of TSOA and not necessarily accurate to the Iliad.
> 
> Enjoy!

They were called _nereids_ , from the word for sea nymphs, the daughters of Nereus and Doris, friends and entourage to the God of the Sea, Poseidon. This was the closest word that the people of Opus had for them, though they were far different than the creatures after which they were named. They were rumored to be the children of sea nymphs and mermaids, half-human, half-fish, with untold power over the sea. For many years no one believed the stories that sailors would tell of these mysterious creatures that lived and hunted in the waters, luring men in with their calls and devouring them whole. They would return from sea with more and more tales of death, showing wounds they’d received, and body parts from fallen sailors they couldn’t save. Still, the people of Opus were hesitant to believe in such tales. Sailors were infamous for being drunkards, anyway.

It wasn’t until one man, Actor, King of Opus, killed one of the creatures, dragging its corpse onto the beach with triumph, that people began to take the nereid concern seriously. Actor explained that they were dangerous – they could make a man insane, they could devour him whole, sink an entire ship with just a breath. People became paranoid, and only the bravest were willing to go back onto the waters of the Aegean Sea.

Of course, the sailors had other incentives. Actor soon discovered that the scales of the nereid were worth ten times their weight in gold, and that surrounding countries were more than willing to pay up. Soon, every man was itching for a chance to hunt the nereids, despite most having no formal training or skill. Although many lives were lost, a great number of nereids were killed and their scales sold, making Opus far richer than surrounding kingdoms. Actor became famous and loved for his discovery and bravery, honored amongst kings. However, the gods were not pleased that their beloved creations were being hunted and killed in great numbers, and it is believed that Actor’s untimely death was caused by none other than Poseidon himself, angered by the desecration of his companions.

That was over two hundred years ago, and Opus had become famous ever since. Actor had several children, and the throne eventually fell to Menoitius, who had one son, Patroclus. By the time he was born, a nereid had not been seen for nearly fifty years.

Patroclus was small and often sickly, suffering from just about every allergy one can have, as well as asthma. In short, every king’s nightmare. Menoitius was certainly not secretive about the fact that he found Patroclus to be disgraceful, and let him know on just about every occasion. He frequently put him down in front of visitors, acknowledging aloud that his son was useless before someone could call him out about it first. Menoitius descended from a proud lineage, and having a son such as Patroclus was really almost a fate worse than death.

Patroclus was forced into athletic training to make him a more competent soldier – running, fighting, and, on this particular day, swimming. Opus was a coastal kingdom and it made sense for citizens to know how to swim, since sailing and fishing were such huge industrial assets.

“Today we will conduct a simple swimming exercise,” the teacher’s voice carried across the beach, where the children were dispersed.

They were all young boys, nearing the age of twelve, full of restless energy and eager to demonstrate their skills. Patroclus stood to the side of the beach, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, trying to calm the racing of his heart. He, of course, had no idea how to swim. He’d never been taught before and, judging from the elated and excited expressions on the other boys’ faces, he was the only one. Patroclus had zero friends amongst the boys, who frequently picked on him for being awkward, clumsy, and weird. They heard from their parents what his own father said about him, and repeated it back to him in cruel words and jests at his expense. Patroclus tried not to let it get to him, but all too frequently he found himself hiding away in a cupboard somewhere, crying softly into his hands. He hated feeling weak and helpless. He hated how no one would ever stick up for him. He wondered why he had to be so different.

“Teacher,” a boy called out. It was Duris, the strongest and fastest of the boys. An infamous show-off. “Isn’t it dangerous to swim in the water? My father says there are nereids that can eat you whole.”

“Are you scared, Duris?” another boy called, taunting. Patroclus cringed at the tone in his voice – all too frequently was it aimed at him. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself invisible, wishing he could bury himself alive in the warm sand beneath his feet.

“No!” Duris called, angrily. He was incredibly proud and used to always being the best. Patroclus pitied whoever had called him out.

“We’ll be staying in the shallows,” the teacher explained, used to dealing with the antics of this unruly class. “Anyone that goes out farther than the breakers will face serious consequences.”

“Yeah, being eaten alive!” someone shouted. Duris scoffed and called the boy a coward, despite having expressed the same concern only seconds before.

Patroclus debated whether or not he should mention to the teacher that he had no idea how to swim. On one hand, it could save his life. On the other, it would make him the target of further bullying and he knew he’d never hear the end of it. He thought vaguely that drowning might not be so bad. He wouldn’t miss much about being alive, and certainly no one would miss him. His father would probably be relieved if he’d died in some tragic accident.

In the end, he decided not to say anything. He hated the sound of his voice, anyway.

“Swim out to the breakers and back,” the teacher instructed. “We’ll make it a race. The winner gets an entire bowl of figs.”

Patroclus loved figs, though he hardly had any chance to enjoy them. He knew he wasn’t going to win a race, however, especially when he would have to concentrate on somehow staying afloat without triggering an asthma attack.

The teacher shouted for them to start and all the boys raced into the water as fast as they could. Patroclus was the last to enter, hesitantly submerging himself in the water and walking out as far as he could. The water was cool despite the warm summer days and his breath quickened. He concentrated on walking one step at a time as the water threatened to rush over him. Soon, he was unable to reach the bottom, the slimy sand falling away under his feet. He hoped he’d be able to remain calm, but the overwhelming sense of darkness and endless abyss below sent him into a panic.

“Come on, Patroclus!” he heard the teacher yell from the shore. He was sure that despite trying his hardest, he was still the farthest behind. “Get moving!”

Patroclus’ face burned at being called out. He wasn’t so far behind not to hear the other boys laughing at him. He tried to watch what they were doing, the way they moved their arms and legs to somehow stay afloat. He tried it himself and found that, with great effort, he was able to move a little. The water crashed around him, getting into his mouth and eyes. He coughed, struggling to stay moving. He was terrified that if he stopped, he’d sink to the bottom almost instantly. The idea of death no longer seemed so comforting.

He had no idea how long he’d been pounding away at the water in an attempt to live before he heard a faint cheering.

“Thank you, teacher!”

That was Duris’ voice. He could barely make it out passed the rushing of the wind and the waves thundering against him. Turning his head, he noticed with dread that the shoreline was barely visible behind him. His classmates had all returned, and the teacher was congratulating Duris on his win. They were so far away they looked like ants, milling around with absolutely no concern for Patroclus.

“Help!” he tried to call out, but his voice was carried away with the wind. Surely the teacher would have to notice he was missing?

All of a sudden he heard a frantic voice yelling.

“Did you see that? Did you see that?”

Patroclus struggled to hear what they were saying. He tried to turn himself around and head back to the shore but no matter how hard he tried, he seemed to be pulled farther and farther away.

“Nereid!” he heard a voice yell. One of the boys, from shore. He’d spotted a nereid, the most dangerous of sea creatures, almost certainly coming for Patroclus – the world’s easiest prey.

His heart was beating wildly in his chest. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to drown, or be eaten alive. He tried again to yell for help. He could barely make out his teacher jumping into the water, hurrying to save him.

Without warning, he was tugged beneath the water, the blackness and sickening quietness overpowering his senses, water filling his nose and lungs. It was only a moment, and then he was back above water, coughing and spluttering and trying to call out passed the saltiness in his mouth and burning in his lungs. Then, a hand was on his ankle. It was cold, and strong, and Patroclus closed his eyes in fear as he was dragged down into the blackness of the sea.

* * *

 Patroclus registered the sound first. It was a faint humming that seemed to resonate throughout his entire body, warming and calming him. It was a song, elaborate and sweet like honey. He felt utterly content lying there in the darkness, totally unaware of anything but the song travelling along the breeze and into his very heart. He wanted to lie there forever. He couldn’t imagine a better way to live, or die. He wondered vaguely if this was the afterlife. He hoped it was.

Then, just like that, the sound was gone. Silence. Patroclus realized with a wakening sense of fear that he was lying on his back, the sun hot against his face. He ached all over, and sharp rock was cutting into his back. He struggled to open his eyes, groaning against the blinding light. His eyes watering, he saw nothing but water out in front of him. He appeared to be on a rock in the middle of the sea. Just his luck. He’d had a perfect chance to drown and somehow managed to find his way onto the only rock for miles around. He was probably hours away from Opus and would now slowly starve to death instead of drowning peacefully. He could no longer remember at all what the song sounded like. Perhaps he’d dreamt it.

Then, he saw something. A flash in the water, an iridescent reflection moving like a snake through the sea beneath him. He froze, curling into the fetal position to keep his feet out of the water. _Nereid_ , he thought, helplessly. Of course, he wouldn’t starve. He’d be eaten. It almost seemed fitting. He started to panic; he couldn’t help it. His breathing became rapid, forced. He knew he was having an asthma attack, and hoped the asphyxia would come before the nereid tearing him apart and pulling the skin from his bones. It was impossible to take in breath now, his lungs wouldn’t fill, and he was becoming light-headed from the sun and lack of air.

He closed his eyes, willing his lungs to take in oxygen, trying desperately to live despite his mind telling him he’d be better off dead. When he opened his eyes again, there was a face before him. He startled, although the face didn’t appear threatening. It belonged to a young boy, no older than him. He had bright green eyes, wide in terror, soaking wet golden hair falling around his shoulders. His hands were resting on Patroclus’ shoulders, shaking him slightly.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice frantic. It sounded strange to Patroclus’ ears. It was too musical to be human, ringing out like it was coming from a distance. It sounded like the hum of the shells that Patroclus used to press to his ear as child, when he still believed such simple pleasures could bring him happiness.

He concentrated on breathing. Whatever this was in front of him, it wasn’t trying to hurt him. Although he really wished he would stop being shaken.

“Stop –” Patroclus managed, before breaking off in a fit of wheezing.

The hands immediately fell away, and the boy pushed back into the water, looking cautiously at Patroclus from the waves.

Slowly, and with great effort, he managed to calm his breathing. It became easier to take in breaths, and he brought some cold water to his face in an attempt to dull the heat-stroke he was most likely suffering. He was not going to pass out on this rock. He repeated it to himself like a mantra.

His head was finally clear, and the boy who’d somehow found him on the only rock in the Aegean Sea was still staring from the waters, now a good distance off. Patroclus could tell from his expression that he was nervous. He found it absurd that he had the power to make anyone nervous.

“Hello,” he called over, unsure what to say. It occurred to him that there was no way this boy was human. It didn’t make sense for someone else to randomly be lost at sea – that was something only Patroclus could manage. If not human, then what? A mermaid? A nereid? He didn’t seem threatening, but Patroclus wasn’t exactly an expert. The only thing he’d learned about nereids had been from his father, who would go on and on about the legacy of his family – bringing millions to the kingdom of Opus by hunting, killing, and selling the scales of the creatures. Patroclus used to dream as a child of doing just that, of somehow making his father proud of him. And here he was, with a nereid in front of him. None of the boys had ever seen one, few people had. He was excited, and terrified. He had absolutely no weapon and no skill fighting. He was useless.

He looked around for a loose rock or something that he could use as a weapon.

“Are you okay?” the boy called over. His voice surprised Patroclus and he jumped, scrambling back to the edge of his rock. His fingers found a small stone that he could use to bash in someone’s brains if he was really dedicated. He imagined doing it and felt nauseous.

The nereid was swimming closer, gazing at Patroclus with a look of absolute fascination and fear. He seemed hesitant to approach the small island.

“I’m fine,” Patroclus said. His voice sounded rough and staggered following the beautiful melody of the boy’s. He wondered how long he’d been passed out on that rock before he finally woke. The sun was still high in the sky, so it couldn’t be that late. He was certain that his father was going ballistic wondering where he was. Probably currently praying to the gods that he’d drowned, or been eaten.

“What was wrong with you?” he asked, swimming closer. Patroclus could see his tail through the water, just like a mermaid’s. It frightened him, though he couldn’t say why. He’d only ever seen pictures of mermaids and nereids in books, as drawings. He never imagined he’d see one in real life, or that they’d be so vibrant, so graceful. The tail seemed to be made of solid gold, glimmering in the sunlight through the clear sea water. Patroclus knew from growing up in Opus, where every last person was obsessed with the nereid, that this boy in front of him was worth the price of the city. It did nothing to calm his nerves.

“I had an asthma attack,” Patroclus explained. He was shaking, whether from fear or stress, he did not know. “I can’t swim.”

The boy looked as though Patroclus had said the most absurd thing. His eyebrows drew together in deep concentration.

Suddenly, the boy was before him, so close that Patroclus could smell him – the strong scent of the sea all around them plus something else – lotus flower, cypress, and ambrosia – the food of the gods. Patroclus shivered. He looked briefly into those bright green eyes, flecked with gold, before looking away. He felt cornered on his small rock, the endless water all around him.

“My name is Achilles,” he said, resting his hands delicately on the rocky shore. “You’re the first human I’ve ever seen.”

Patroclus instantly felt guilty that he was Achilles’ first introduction to humankind. He couldn’t imagine what a letdown that must be.

“I’m sorry,” he said. It occurred to him then that he never would have survived this far on his own. The nereid had almost certainly dragged him onto this rock. And why? Weren’t nereids supposed to be constantly hungry for human flesh? It didn’t make sense.

“Why?” Achilles asked.

“Because you had to rescue me,” Patroclus said. It didn’t happen very often, but he always felt guilty whenever someone went out of their way for him. He knew that he didn’t deserve that sort of kindness.

“What’s your name?” Achilles asked. He was swimming back and forth now, about a foot away from the island. He would occasionally dip below the water, twirling and spinning a bit, before coming back up. If Patroclus didn’t know any better, he’d assume that Achilles was showing off.

“Patroclus,” he said, hating the way it sounded. _Honor of the father_ , when he was anything but.

He imagined telling his father that he’d seen a nereid, had spoken to one. He imagined the disbelief in his eyes. He’d almost certainly ask why Patroclus hadn’t killed it. Why he hadn’t been able to do this one thing for their kingdom, for their family’s name.

“Pa-tro-clus,” Achilles repeated, dipping back below the water again before coming up only inches away from the rock. Patroclus had never heard his name sound like that before. Achilles did speak with a sort of strange accent, but Patroclus felt no need to correct him. When Achilles said it, his name sounded almost pretty.

“Yes,” he managed.

“You were drowning when I found you.” Achilles’ golden hair shone luminous in the sunlight. “You were panicking. I had to sing to you a little, to calm you down.”

Patroclus remembered the beautiful song that had kept him so subdued. He’d learned all his life to beware the power nereids had over humans, but had never truly believed that a simple song could knock a grown man out cold.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” he continued, flushed with embarrassment. “But you were going to hurt yourself.”

“It’s all right,” Patroclus said. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as peaceful as when he’d heard Achilles’ song. “Are you…a nereid?”

Achilles’ nose wrinkled in confusion at the word. He hoisted himself onto the rock beside Patroclus, his golden tail still mostly submerged in the water. He was moving it softly back and forth, creating small ripples in the water that glittered in the sunlight.

“What’s that, Patroclus?”

They were so close now Patroclus was afraid he might have another asthma attack. Achilles was even more beautiful close up, his tan skin glowing in the sunlight, his bright green eyes full of light and curiosity. His face looked almost like a girl’s, with soft features and a sort of innate innocence.

“It’s our word for creatures that are half-sea nymph, half-mermaid,” Patroclus explained, remembering his lifelong studies of the creature that sat beside him. He didn’t mention that they were supposed to love feasting on human flesh. Perhaps he’d gotten lucky and found the one vegetarian nereid.

Achilles was looking at Patroclus as though he’d never seen anything so interesting in his entire life. He smiled, then, and Patroclus might have smiled back if he hadn’t been so nervous. He realized that he was unconsciously waiting for Achilles to say something mean.

“Patroclus,” he said, and Patroclus flushed at hearing his name spoken in such a way – like he was important, and worth addressing. “Let’s play a game.”

“A game?” Patroclus asked, hesitant. Games with the other boys usually ended with him either being left out, or the butt of everyone’s joke. He ran a hand through his salt-dried hair, wishing he had some means of escape.

Achilles did not seem to notice his hesitation and fell back into the water, creating a wake that lapped against the edge of Patroclus’ small island. He was lying on his back amongst the waves, arms out, lounging. Patroclus envied his natural grace; he was always awkward no matter what position he was in.

“I’ll make a face at you,” Achilles said, green eyes finding Patroclus. “It can be dumb or funny, and you have to try not to laugh. If you do, then you have to make a face, and I’ll try not to laugh.”

Patroclus blinked his large eyes – once, twice. The other boys never played games like this. In fact, all of their games involved violence to some extent, or some chance for them to show off. Patroclus had never tried to make a dumb face before. He always assumed his natural face was dumb enough.

“Okay,” he said, not wanting to disappoint Achilles by asking if they could play a game where he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself. Achilles utter lack of self-consciousness made Patroclus even more self-aware. He was the first human Achilles had ever seen, he reminded himself. It’s not as though he had anyone to compete with.

Before he could over-think his dumb face, Achilles was before him, far too close, crossing his eyes and opening his mouth and tilting his head and looking more ridiculous than Patroclus could have ever imagined a sea nymph looking. The fact that he was sitting here, on a rock in the middle of the sea, playing a ‘dumb face game’ with a nereid suddenly hit him like the waves that had plowed him down and landed him here in the first place. He couldn’t help it, he smiled. Achilles seemed to consider this a great victory, and refused to quit until Patroclus let out a small giggle. The sound of his own laughter startled him; he couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard it. He’d come to associate laughter with mockery and loneliness. It felt strange to laugh and feel happy.

“Your turn,” Achilles said, smiling widely. He was once again sitting beside Patroclus, nudging him gently with his small hand, still wet from the sea.

Patroclus had absolutely no idea what to do, but couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing Achilles by refusing to play. Fortunately – or unfortunately – he was spared from having to try when Achilles’ head whipped to the horizon, sensing something Patroclus could not see.

“What is it?” Patroclus asked, worried. Perhaps Achilles’ nereid friends were coming to remind him that he was a carnivorous monster.

“My mother is coming,” he said.

Before Patroclus could ask whether or not he should attempt to hide, a sea nymph was before them. She seemed to appear from thin air, and stood tall on the rock next to Patroclus, who jumped back, falling into the water.

He was caught by Achilles, who pushed him back onto the rock, patting him a little on the head as though he were coddling a child. Patroclus didn’t have time to feel stupid. He was staring up at the sea nymph before him, her pale skin and black eyes seeming to singe his very soul.

“What is this?” she asked, looking at Patroclus as though she had never seen anything so disgusting in her entire life.

“A human,” Achilles said. He sounded proud, as though he’d made a great discovery. “His name is Patroclus.”

“I don’t care what its name is,” she seethed. “Where did you find it?”

“He was drowning. I saved him.”

“You should have let it die,” she said, her voice harsh and dangerous. Patroclus felt cold, despite the sun still baking him. She seemed to bring storm clouds with her, the sea around them suddenly tumultuous and dark. “Humans are vile creatures, I’ve told you before. They’d kill you the first chance they get.”

Patroclus did not have time to object. He was being pulled up by the collar of his shirt, which hung loosely around his small frame. The sea nymph was so close, Patroclus could feel her cold, salty breath on his face.

“Isn’t that right, Patroclus?” she spat his name. “You would kill my son first chance you get.”

“I wouldn’t,” Patroclus tried, but his breath was short.

“You humans are all alike. Barbaric. Greedy.”

“Mother, please stop, you’re hurting him,” Achilles begged.

The sea nymph threw him down, and he would have cracked his skull open on the rocks if he wasn’t caught again by Achilles, who settled him gently on the island, staying close.

“My name is Thetis,” the sea nymph said. Patroclus had heard the name before. He’d memorized the names of all the fifty sea nymphs of Poseidon. He trembled there on the island, feeling the power of the gods all around him. His whole life he’d felt helpless, but this sort of terror was new. “If you ever come near my son again, I will kill you.”

She turned to Achilles.

“Return the prince to his palace in Opus, and we will never speak of this again.”

Without another word, she jumped into the sea, disappearing deep into the darkness of the water. Patroclus was certain he was going to throw up.

Finally, he turned to Achilles, whose face was red with embarrassment.

“You’re really a prince?” he asked, at last.

“Yes,” Patroclus said.

“I’m sorry.” He was so close to Patroclus that their arms were touching, bare skin against Patroclus’ thin, torn shirt. “My mother is distrustful of humans. We’ve lost many friends from your species.”

“I would never,” Patroclus said, overcome with emotion. “I would never hurt you. I won’t tell anyone I saw you. I promise.”

Achilles looked at him, his bright green eyes shining as he smiled.

“Thank you, Patroclus. Let me take you home.”

The very last thing Patroclus wanted to do was go home. He would be content to sit on this rock forever with Achilles, playing stupid games and watching him swim back and forth. But he supposed that sort of life was impossible, especially since he was a terrible swimmer.

He was hesitant to get back into the water, still traumatized by his earlier brush with death.

“Don’t worry,” Achilles assured, gathering Patroclus into his arms. “I’ll protect you.”

Patroclus lowered himself into the sea, the cold water catching his breath. Achilles’ arms were tight around him.

“Grab onto my shoulders,” he said. “I’ll swim you to shore. We’re not far away.”

Achilles turned so that his back was facing Patroclus, who grabbed onto his shoulders. He was simultaneously terrified of drowning and hurting Achilles.

“Hold on,” Achilles said, before swimming off, Patroclus gliding through the water behind him like a cape.

Patroclus closed his eyes as they whipped through the water, the salt spray sprinkling his face. It was exhilarating, like being able to fly. Patroclus could distantly feel Achilles’ tail beating behind them, propelling them through the water as fast as he had ever gone. They created waves around them and after a few moments, Patroclus opened his eyes to watch the horizon rush by.

It wasn’t long before the shoreline of Opus came into view. Patroclus had expected it to be deserted, that the boys and the teacher had gone home after deciding that Patroclus was a lost cause. Instead, the beach was filled with people donning bright red and bronze uniforms – guards from the palace. Although Patroclus did not see his father, his stomach filled with fear. He was going to be in so much trouble.

“Don’t get too close,” Patroclus said, voice high. “They’ll see you.”

Achilles made a sharp left and Patroclus gripped onto him tighter. He wanted to hide his face in Achilles’ back. He wanted to disappear.

They came upon a small beach a little way’s off, surrounded by thick forest. The guards had not yet come here to look, and it provided them a temporary shelter. Achilles swam into the shallows, until Patroclus was able to touch his feet onto the soft, wet sand, the water coming up to his waist.

“Thank you,” he said, struggling to maintain balance as the waves fell around him.

Achilles was floating there, watching him with intent eyes. Patroclus had only known him for a few hours, and knew he’d never forget him. He was going to miss Achilles – not just his effortless smile and the way he said his name, but how he made Patroclus feel. Carefree, happy, special. Patroclus struggled to remember that feeling, to hold onto it. He knew he’d never feel it again.

“My mother does not wish for me to see you again,” Achilles said in his soft, pretty voice. Patroclus glanced behind them, at the forest surrounding the beach. He could hear the guards’ voices shouting orders through the trees. They sounded bored, probably wondering when on earth Menoitius had started caring about what happened to his son. At any moment, one could burst through the trees and see Achilles. He felt sick thinking about what they would do to him.

“I know,” Patroclus said. He couldn’t blame her. He’d seen firsthand the sort of violence the people of Opus brought to the nereids. Of course, Patroclus had always been taught that sort of violence was justified. _If you don’t kill them first, they’ll kill you_. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“But maybe I can come here again, and see you.” His words surprised Patroclus so much that he nearly lost his balance and fell over. He stared into Achilles’ green eyes, desperate to know whether or not he was making a joke. When Patroclus first began lessons with the other boys, they would always compliment him in some absurd way and then laugh about it later when he took them seriously. He knew that he was awful at reading people, and so always just assumed the worst.

Achilles, however, seemed genuine. And he was waiting for Patroclus’ response.

“Okay,” he said. “But it could be dangerous.”

He would actually die if Achilles was caught visiting him. He knew the way the people of Opus lusted after gold. They would kill each other for a chance to kill Achilles and sell the golden scales from his tail.

“It’s all right,” Achilles said, smiling, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “You’re worth it. You still need to make a dumb face.”

It took Patroclus a moment to realize that Achilles was referring to the game they’d been playing and not actually telling him that he had a dumb face. He smiled. He wanted to spend every moment of the rest of his life with Achilles.

“Patroclus!” a voice called. It was harsh, angry. A guard from the palace. Patroclus’ head whipped around to see a guard marching down the beach, heavy in uniform and boots. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Patroclus turned back, practically delirious with fear, but Achilles was gone. He’d probably heard the guard even before Patroclus did. He was smart; he knew how to avoid humans. Patroclus’ legs felt weak beneath him. He struggled to walk through the water and onto the beach, feeling the eyes of the guard beating down on him.

“Well? Where have you been?”

“Swimming,” he said. He couldn’t think of a realistic excuse for how he’d vanished during lessons and appeared hours later on some secluded beach. It was better to play the fool.

The guard rolled his eyes and huffed, tired and annoyed that he’d had to spend his entire afternoon searching for some boy who didn’t matter to anyone. He marched back along the beach and through the trees, Patroclus in tow.

The palace was close to the beach, behind a high wall for protection, and it took them only a few minutes to return. The guards were walking at a brisk pace, eager to be done with this ridiculous errand. Patroclus had to run in order to keep up.

His heart was racing widely. He was being taken to his father. He tried to remember Achilles’ smile. He tried to remember Achilles telling him he was _worth it_ – worth possibly dying, worth defying his sea nymph mother. It was hard to believe that such a thing had happened. Patroclus contemplated vaguely if it had all been a dream brought on by sun stroke.

With little grace, he was brought before his father’s high throne. He knelt on the cold, stone floor, feeling light-headed from the exertions of the day.

“We found Patroclus on a small beach near where he disappeared,” the guard said. “He appears unharmed.”

“That’s a shame,” his father said, voice deep and grumbling. His tone was disinterested, as though the returning of his son was something he could give or take. Probably it was. He dismissed the guards with a casual wave of the hand, the heavy doors shutting behind them, echoing throughout the empty hall.

“So,” his father said, once they were alone. “Where were you?”

“I—” Patroclus began, cringing at the sound of his voice – too loud, too high-pitched, too weak. He was shaking, and the fear was evident in his voice. “I swam out too far, and was carried by the current. I ended up on a small island.”

“You can’t swim,” his father stated. “How did you make it back to the beach?”

“I….I swam. I learned.”

His father looked at him with disbelief, and beneath that, anger. He knew Patroclus was lying to him but couldn’t figure out why or what about.

He stood, descending the steps from the platform of the throne.

“Stand,” he commanded, when he was only a few feet from Patroclus’ kneeling form.

Patroclus stood warily on shaking legs, eyes downcast. His father was frequently angry with him – for placing last in a race, for tripping and embarrassing him in front of visitors. For existing in a state that his father would always consider shameful. But he’d never lied to his father before, he hadn’t needed to. Patroclus didn’t get into trouble, he didn’t press boundaries. He wasn’t like the other children – always challenging authority, seeing what they could get away with. Patroclus struggled every day just to get out of bed and face everyone without curling into a ball and wishing to die.

“Where did you go, really?” his father asked. His voice was quiet, deadly. Patroclus knew there was one way out of this: telling his father the truth. That he’d seen a nereid. Telling him how he’d spoken to one, how its tail was made of gold. How he could lead him to it, and make their kingdom richer than any king before. His father wouldn’t believe him at first, but the story would be glamorous enough to catch his attention. And Patroclus could prove it. He knew exactly where to go to meet Achilles again.

But, of course, he did not say that. He closed his eyes and pictured Achilles’ smile, his arms around Patroclus, protecting him. He would never betray him.

“I told you what happened,” he said, quiet and scared. “I learned to swim watching the other boys—”

He did not have a chance to finish. The back of his father’s hand hit hard against his cheek, turning his face to the side, sending him sprawling to the ground. He caught himself with his open palms, barely. He did not move from his place on the stone floor, lest he anger his father further.

“If it happens again,” his father said, walking passed Patroclus and heading down the long corridor of the throne room. “I will not be so lenient.”

Patroclus stayed there, on the ground, until he heard the door shut. His cheek stung and he knew it would leave a bruise that the other boys would taunt him for. None of their fathers ever struck them – it was only him, because he was so disgraceful, so useless.

He stood with great effort, making his way through the long, dark corridors of the palace and into his room, where he fell into bed. He wanted to cry, laying there in the dark. He thought about Achilles. Where did he sleep? Under the water? Did nereids live in houses, or caves? It occurred to him that despite having learned about the nereids his entire life, he knew very little about them. He knew how to kill them. He knew the danger they presented. He knew their economic value. That was it.

The exhaustion of the day was creeping up on him, and he closed his eyes. He would not attend dinner with the other boys; he didn’t want to see them. He would have to deal with them tomorrow, at lessons. Instead, he thought about Achilles. He thought about the sound of his own laughter when Achilles made his dumb face. He thought of Achilles’ song. For the first time he could ever remember, Patroclus fell asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

Morning came too early, and Patroclus dragged himself to breakfast and then to lessons. The other boys were talking frantically about the events of the previous day – the nereid they’d seen in the water, and Patroclus’ mysterious disappearance. If it hadn’t been for their loud conversing, Patroclus might have been able to convince himself that he’d dreamt Achilles, and the small rock island in the middle of the Aegean Sea. But when his teacher approached him and asked whether or not he was okay, he knew it had been real.

Today they would race along the beach. The teacher was hesitant to allow them to swim again, and Patroclus couldn’t exactly blame him. Still, it was a hot day and the boys were all itching for a swim to take off the aching burn of the sun.

“We can’t swim because Patroclus will drown,” Duris announced to the group at large. They had raced for two hours, and were taking a break on the beach. Many of the boys were growing angry at the teacher’s insistence that they stay on shore.

Patroclus was sitting in the sand a little way off, trying desperately not to draw attention to himself. Of course, it never worked. He’d buried his feet in the sand, and was staring off into the sea, thinking about Achilles.

Duris and three other boys marched over to him, kicking sand into his face.

“You should have just drowned yesterday,” Duris spat out. The other boys murmured their agreement. “We all would have been better off.”

Yesterday Patroclus might have agreed with them. Now, the idea of death seemed strangely terrifying. It would take him even farther away from Achilles.

Patroclus refused to look up, brushing the sand from his mouth.

“Well?” Duris did not appreciate being ignored.

“Look at his face,” another boy said, amused. “I bet his father hit him again.”

They laughed, and Patroclus’ face burned. They were so loud he knew that everyone could hear. He hoped the teacher might intervene, but didn’t blame him when he did not. The first time he’d reprimanded the boys for picking on Patroclus, his father had raged, saying that he needed to toughen up, anyway.

“We all thought you’d been eaten by the nereid yesterday, Patroclus,” Duris continued, voice loud and goading. Duris said his name like it was a nuisance – ugly, and awkward. His entire life he’d thought that was the only way it could sound. “Your father told mine that he was so disappointed when you came back alive.”

“The nereid probably didn’t eat him,” the third boy said. “Because they don’t eat garbage.”

“Yeah, I saw it. It was going to eat him and then swam away,” the second boy added.

This seemed to enrage Duris, who always had to be the best and most important.

“You didn’t see it, Abrax,” he said. “You admitted yesterday you didn’t. I’m the only one who saw it.”

Abrax stuttered a moment, unsure whether to defend his honor or agree with Duris. Eventually, he nodded.

“I saw it a little,” he said, quietly. “I saw its tail.”

“You didn’t,” Duris argued. Patroclus glanced upwards and saw that his face was red. He was never challenged. “What color was it, then?”

“Red,” Abrax said, confidently.

“No, you’re wrong,” Duris said. “I told you that you didn’t see it. It was dark green, like seaweed.”

Patroclus laughed, then. He hadn’t meant to. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, and was out before he could over-think or stop it.

Duris looked down at him, anger momentarily vanished in place of complete and utter confusion. He probably hadn’t known Patroclus was capable of laughter.

Patroclus came to his senses in a flash, and stood, struggling to look Duris in the eye. He was shaking again. He knew that Duris and his friends could do whatever they wanted to him without consequence. It was impossible to feel brave.

“Is something amusing to you?” Duris asked, tightening his fists threateningly.

“No,” Patroclus said. He hated the falter in his voice. He was the prince; he would one day inherit this whole kingdom if his father couldn’t come up with some reason to disown him. They should respect him, and want to impress him.

“Then why were you laughing?” Duris was close to him now, spewing hot breath into his face. He wanted to back down, he wanted to apologize and ask them not to hurt him, to leave him alone, and run away, back to the castle. But he couldn’t. For whatever reason, he still had the slightest glimmer of pride.

“You didn’t see the nereid, Duris,” he said. It was the first time he’d ever spoken in such a way, to anyone. Confident, powerful. “You’re just trying to impress everyone, but you’re a liar.”

Duris’ face was red with rage. No one ever argued with him, they were all too busy falling over themselves trying to impress him. He wasn’t royalty, but he was close enough. His father was Lykaon, the king’s advisor. Their family was wealthy beyond means. Not as wealthy as Patroclus, but he was so much less impressive in every way that no one paid any attention.

“You think you can get away with calling me a liar?” Duris asked. He grabbed the neck of Patroclus’ tunic, and shoved him violently backwards. He stumbled, trying to retain his balance, falling heavily onto the beach. It was a soft landing, but he struggled to stand back up, grappling at the sand that seemed to slip away beneath him. He was panicking, sensing Duris’ approach. Without warning, there was a sharp kick to his stomach, forcing the breath from his lungs.

“If I killed you right now,” he heard Duris’ voice say, distantly, above the sound of his own pounding heart and wheezing breath. “I’d be rewarded for it.”

Another kick, and this time Patroclus fell limply to the sand, curling into a ball, trying to protect his body from further blows. Fortunately, none came. It was several moments before he peaked up from his protective position, eyes finding their teacher, who was doing his best to subtly reprimand the boys. Patroclus knew that he hadn’t needed to step in, and would likely be in trouble if Duris decided to broadcast the incident to his father. He felt guilty, and his whole body ached. He refused to cry. Not here on the beach in front of everyone.

Duris and the other boys were sent back to the castle, and the teacher approached Patroclus. He sat up slowly, the simple action causing him great pain. The teacher looked as though he might offer his hand to help before deciding against it.

“Get back to the castle,” he said. “Lessons are over for today.”

He walked up the beach and away, leaving Patroclus alone with nothing but the sound of the waves crashing into the shore. He closed his eyes, hugging his arms against his bruised chest.

* * *

He did not know how long he stayed like that, watching the water swell against the shore, retreating back again into the sea. The tide had come in a little, and the cold water was just beginning to lap against Patroclus’ bare feet. He did not want to go back to the castle, though he knew the sun would be down soon and his absence would be noted.

Instead, he walked along the shoreline, limping a little, to the secluded beach where Achilles had dropped him off the day before. The branches from the trees scraped against his legs, and he was bleeding by the time he made it to the beach, all but throwing himself onto the sand. He felt horrible.

Closing his eyes to the warm breeze, he tried to imagine Achilles’ face, and what his song had sounded like. He wished he could hear it now. He tried humming a little, though he had absolutely no ear for music. His voice was too flat, and unpleasant to listen to. Still, he hummed a little, under his breath, trying pathetically to recreate the divine song he’d heard only briefly in his half-aware state.

Eyes closed, it took him nearly three minutes before he realized abruptly that he was not singing alone. He startled, looking around wildly for the source of the other voice. It did not take him long to spot Achilles, lounging lazily in the sand, half underwater, staring at Patroclus with those curious green eyes.

His heart practically jumped from his chest in joy. He did not think Achilles would come here again.

Patroclus raced over as fast as he could manage and sat down beside Achilles, trying not to stare at the sharp glare of his golden tail against the fading sunlight.

“What happened?” Achilles asked, frantic. He was hoisted up by his arms, one hand touching Patroclus’ face hesitantly. His hand was cold against Patroclus’ cheek, which had grown warm from the long hours in the sun. It ached a little where Achilles touched it. He blushed at the small contact, and looked away.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said, and Patroclus’ blush deepened. He knew that tone – Achilles did not believe him. Instead of sounding threatening, however, Achilles sounded worried. “Did another human do this to you?”

“My father,” Patroclus admitted, after a pause. He could not think of a good reason to lie to Achilles. It was only a matter of time, after all, until Achilles realized that Patroclus was the worst sort of human he could have met. “He was angry I disappeared yesterday.”

“Is that common?” Achilles asked, confused. “Humans hitting each other?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “But I am a disappointment to him.”

Achilles’ eyes widened, like the very last thing he could ever imagine Patroclus being was a disappointment.

“Well, I’m happy I found you here,” Achilles said, with a warm smile. “I’ve been checking all day.”

Butterflies formed in his stomach. It was a strange thing to feel wanted.

“I had to attend training,” he said. He didn’t elaborate on how awful that had gone. “The other boys were bragging about how they’d seen you yesterday. They thought your tail was green, like seaweed.”

Achilles’ face scrunched up in amusement and his tail flicked idly through the water.

“Some of us have green tails,” he said. “It’s a fairly common color.”

“Gold is unusual.” Patroclus knew this from his studies. It was actually the rarest, and the most valuable. A golden-tailed nereid had never been seen before, until now.

“That’s because my father is Phorcys, a sea god,” Achilles said. _The god of hidden dangers in the sea._ His tone was too casual and Patroclus struggled to follow. He’d known Achilles was divine, but he was more than that. A sea nymph for a mother, and sea god for a father? He had to be considered royalty. He was more important than Patroclus would ever be, more important than anyone in Opus. Patroclus felt small in comparison.

And yet, Achilles seemed almost frustratingly unaware of the grandness of his existence, lounging there on the beach as though he hadn’t a care in the world. He had probably spoken with the gods, spoken with Poseidon himself, and yet, for some reason, he was content to sit here on the beach, talking with Patroclus.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said. He realized he’d been staring and turned away, blushing. “You should learn how to swim.”

“I know,” Patroclus said, surprised. He’d expected Achilles to call him out for gawking.

“I will teach you.” Achilles grabbed Patroclus’ hand. He instinctively flinched back, the cold contact startling him. Achilles looked embarrassed. “I think– if you could learn to swim– I could show you around. Where I live.”

“Where you live,” Patroclus repeated, dumbly.

“The sea caves.”

The sea caves were not only mostly underwater, but notoriously off-limits to mortals. Patroclus scratched his head, nervously.

“I can’t breathe underwater.” It seemed an obvious thing to say.

Achilles nodded, as though Patroclus had made a valid and completely unforeseen point.

“It is sometimes possible,” Achilles began, stuttering in a way that roughly contrasted his natural grace. “For mortals to live amongst the sea nymphs. It has happened before.”

Patroclus recalled the story of Glaucus – a fisherman who, upon eating a magical herb, became a merman and lived amongst the sea gods. Patroclus could not imagine such a thing happening to him. Even with the truth of the gods before him, it seemed an impossible tale.

“Either way, it will be good for you to learn to swim,” he said. “I do not like to think of you drowning.”

It seemed odd that Achilles would worry at all about his safety. He simply nodded.

“And I will teach you. Come with me.” Achilles grabbed his hand again and this time Patroclus did not pull away. He followed Achilles into the sea, deeper and deeper, until the water touched his chin. Achilles was close to him, submerged in the water, his nose only inches away from Patroclus’. He was staring into his eyes, that same look of fascination and curiosity. Patroclus struggled to remain calm. The cold water did feel good against his body, numbing the bruises from his earlier fight with the boys. Achilles touched his arm, lightly.

“Try floating first,” Achilles said. “Lie on your back and breathe slowly.”

Patroclus blinked. He didn’t even know where to begin, and Achilles was staring at him intently. Carefully, he lowered himself into the sea, pushing his legs out so that he could lie atop the water. He thought for sure he would sink to the bottom, until he felt Achilles’ hands light on his shoulders, holding him up.

“You’re good at this,” he said, his breath soft in Patroclus’ hair. He flushed, turning so that his feet were once again touching the ground and he was looking at Achilles. Their faces were practically touching.

“What are the sea caves like?” Patroclus asked.

“Hmm.” Achilles considered it. “They’re many colors. Silver, and pink, and blue. There are hundreds of them, and they go deep below the water. I live in a cave, with my mother, and the queen, Amphitrite. And our servants.”

“You are considered royalty.”

“Yes,” Achilles said. “Like you.”

Patroclus might have laughed at this. He was technically royalty, but he couldn’t remember ever feeling like it.

“You must be very important,” Patroclus continued. He did not know what exactly he expected Achilles to admit. Perhaps why exactly the future king of the nereids seemed so keen to waste hours with Patroclus. It didn’t make any sense. “I was taught that the nereids have power over the sea. And your father is a sea god besides.”

“It’s true,” Achilles said, after a long pause. “I am very important.”

He wasn’t boasting, just stating a fact. Patroclus was surprised to hear it stated so bluntly.

“My father has had many other children,” he said. He was no longer looking at Patroclus, and his cheeks were red. “Skylla. Ladon. Ekhidna. All of them monsters.”

Patroclus knew the names vaguely from stories. Skylla was a sea monster who devoured sailors. Ladon, a hundred-headed sea serpent. Ekhidna, a she-dragon. He felt a chill run down his spine thinking that such creatures actually existed. In that moment, he wanted very badly to be on land.

“It is his wish that I should become the same,” Achilles said. “That I should use my power against humanity, in a sort of war. And my mother agrees with him…well, you saw how she is. She hates humans.”

“They want you to become a monster,” Patroclus said. He couldn’t picture it. Achilles with his sweet, easy smile and beautiful voice becoming a murderous sea monster.

“Yes.” Achilles’ cheeks were red.

“But you don’t hate humans the way that they do.” Patroclus felt lost, even farther away from Achilles than before. A reminder that their species were, technically, enemies.

“My mother says it’s because I’m young,” Achilles said. “I haven’t seen death like them.”

Patroclus had never seen a nereid killed before. He saw the jewelry that their scales were made into, the beautiful decorations that adorned the very palace he lived in. He never bothered to picture the living creatures that they had come from. That perhaps the ruby red scales on the crown that his father wore had belonged to someone like Achilles. Someone with a family, and friends, and dreams. He felt sick, thinking about it.

“What will you do?” he asked.

“I do not know,” Achilles answered. The sun was just touching the horizon and Achilles’ eyes were cast into shadow.

Patroclus shivered, cold in the fading daylight. Achilles noticed, and frowned.

“You should go back onto shore,” he said. “You’re cold.”

Patroclus nodded. He knew that he should also head back to the castle.

“Will I see you again?” he asked, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.

“Of course,” Achilles said, with a smile. “I’ll watch for you.”

* * *

This was how it went for many months. Patroclus suffered through lesson after lesson with his teacher, Duris, and the other boys, and, if he had the opportunity, would then sneak away to his and Achilles’ secluded beach. Achilles was almost always there within a few minutes, as though he possessed some sixth sense for Patroclus’ presence. It was only a handful of times that Patroclus sat on the beach alone, watching the waves for Achilles’ golden hair until the sun went down, heading back to the castle in disappointment.

Achilles eventually taught him how to swim. It took many, many weeks but finally Patroclus was able to regulate his breathing and coordinate himself well enough to stay above water. Achilles was incredibly enthusiastic – cheering and showering Patroclus with compliments. He couldn’t help but be proud of himself. He still wouldn’t win any races, but he could at least keep up.

It was nearing winter, and the air was chilly on the beach when Patroclus asked Achilles what exact powers he possessed. It was strange to think that Achilles might one day become another one of Phorcys’ monsters – a weapon against humanity, used only for death and violence.

Achilles was always making him smile. He knew what made Patroclus laugh, or what would cheer him up on a particularly bad day. No matter what, it seemed like Patroclus always had Achilles’ attention. He felt important when they were together. He felt happy.

“I can control the sea,” Achilles said. “To an extent. And I can hypnotize humans.” He seemed suddenly self-conscious saying it. “If I tried. And the song, but you know about that.”

Patroclus stared with wide eyes. “Have you ever—” He broke off. He had been about to ask if Achilles had ever hypnotized him. He probably wouldn’t have noticed. After all, that was the whole point. He felt awkward asking, though. He trusted Achilles fully, and didn’t want to insult him. Achilles seemed able to read his mind.

“Of course not,” he said. It was the harshest he’d ever sounded. “I wouldn’t, ever.”

“I know,” Patroclus said. He believed him. “I’m sorry to ask.”

They were both of them lying on the sand, Achilles’ golden tail dipped into the water. Their bare arms were touching, and the cold breeze whipped around them.

“Watch,” Achilles said.

Patroclus did not have to ask what he meant. The waves, which had been brushing against his feet only moments before, drew back unnaturally, darkening, rushing into the ocean as though summoned by some mysterious force. Then, the sea began to rise. Higher and higher, forming a wave so tall it towered over them, threatening to collapse and consume the beach. Patroclus stood in fear, his legs weak beneath him. But Achilles did not move. He was staring at the wave above them, eyes half-lidded, almost bored. It cast them into a shadow, briefly, and then fell back into the sea just as fast. The waves that approached the shore then were peaceful, like before. Patroclus had pulled away from the sea in his fear, and scurried back to where Achilles lay, looking down at the sand.

“You did that?” Patroclus asked, in disbelief. How? He hadn’t even moved. It was impossible. Should there not have been some spell, some motion, some summoning of the gods?

He told himself: Achilles had no need to summon the gods. He was already divine.

“It is not even a little of what I can do,” Achilles said, turning to Patroclus with dark green eyes.

“It was amazing,” Patroclus admitted, but Achilles heard the fear in his voice.

“I’m sorry. I suppose it can be frightening to witness.”

“It was unexpected,” Patroclus said. He smiled, then, hoping to dispel any of Achilles’ discomfort. This was his best friend. This was the one who listened to him cry over the cruelties of his father and the boys, the one who sang to him when he was upset. He should not feel afraid.

Achilles’ hand was on his, then. Cold and soft. He entwined their fingers together. Patroclus flushed, staring at their hands.

“I cannot imagine ever wanting to use it,” he said. “For violence.”

Patroclus looked up, meeting his eyes. He could not read them. Achilles was close to him, his pupils so wide his eyes looked almost black.

“Achilles.” A harsh voice, sudden, cutting through the howl of the wind. Patroclus had not heard it since the day they’d met.

“Mother,” Achilles greeted. Thetis stood in the waves, black dress whipping around her. She looked absolutely livid, her dark eyes murderous.

“You think I do not realize what you did,” she said. “Moving the sea. In front of a human.”

“I hardly did anything,” Achilles said. He sounded small next to his mother, unsure. “And I trust Patroclus.”

Thetis looked as though she might vomit at the mention of his name. Patroclus was frozen where he sat, too afraid to move an inch.

“ _Patroclus_ ,” she spat his name, “will one day rule the very kingdom that you are destined to destroy. You may think becoming his friend will make this easier, but it will not. He will turn on you the second it will bring him fame.”

“It would have already brought him fame,” Achilles said, louder. “And yet, he has not done it.”

“Because he is a child with little skill and even less influence,” Thetis said. “In time, that will change.”

Patroclus’ head was spinning. They were talking about him, and yet their conversation seemed to be about some other world. Some other Patroclus. He could feel Achilles shaking beside him. He was upset. Patroclus fought the urge to reach over and comfort him; he could only imagine the punishment he’d face from Thetis for doing such a thing.

“Phorcys is here, and requests your presence. Come.”

It was a command, and Achilles could not refuse.

“I will see you soon, Patroclus,” he said, in a whisper, before disappearing beneath the sea. Patroclus stayed where he sat on the beach, too afraid to look up and meet the goddess’s gaze.

“You will never see him again,” she said, and followed Achilles beneath the darkness of the waves.

* * *

Patroclus did see Achilles again, but their visits were shorter, and farther in between. Patroclus would ask if he was in danger, and Achilles would smile and say that everything was fine. Phorcys’ visit was a formality. His mother was distracted with other things. Their alleged war with humanity was all but forgotten.

They would play games on the beach to take their minds off of the politics and the manipulative forces in their lives. Patroclus was quickly becoming an adept swimmer. At this point, he could even out-swim most of the boys. Of course, he never did. He did not wish to draw more attention to himself, or have to explain how he’d learned to swim so well.

Three years passed by without incident, and Patroclus found himself lying on the beach, closing his eyes to the warm sunlight. It was his sixteenth birthday, a fact that his father had conveniently forgotten. Patroclus never mentioned his birthday to anyone. He knew that, because no one liked him, they would simply use the day as an excuse to taunt him more than usual. His first birthday with Achilles had brought him to tears. Achilles spent the entire day with him, despite increasing threats from his mother. He’d made him a crown of flowers and stones from the sea caves. Patroclus treasured it, and kept it hidden. It would raise far too many questions if it were ever found.

Now, he lay on the beach, Achilles beside him. Achilles was singing a song that he’d written about him, and Patroclus was blushing all the way to his ears.

“Happy birthday,” he said, when he’d finished. He was so close that his breath danced across Patroclus’ ear. He turned to face him, and their noses brushed together. Patroclus’ breath caught in his throat, but he did not move away. Achilles’ eyes were dark, only a thin ring of green visible. He had the ghost of a smile on his face, left over from the song he’d been singing.

“Thank you,” Patroclus said, and his voice was so quiet it was hardly heard.

They stayed there for a moment, watching the light flicker in each other’s eyes. Time seemed to pause but for the rhythmical crash of the waves.

Patroclus did not have time to think. He leaned forward, slightly, and pressed his lips to Achilles’. His lips were warmer than he imagined, soft, and tasted of salt. He felt Achilles shift closer to him, pressing their bodies together.

Patroclus had known for a while that his feelings for Achilles went beyond friendship, and had spent many sleepless nights figuring out what exactly that meant. Achilles was a nereid; he was divine. He could never be with someone like Patroclus.

He pulled away, realizing with horror what he had done.

And yet, Achilles did not look upset. His eyes were wide, confused.

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus said. He wasn’t sure what else to do.

“Don’t be,” Achilles said, propping himself up on an elbow. His golden hair was long, flowing in waves around his shoulder blades. “I am not.”

Patroclus blushed. He had never thought about kissing anyone before. His father had talked distractedly about potential marriages, mentioning the names of girls in passing to Patroclus as though he had any real say in the matter. Patroclus had never thought about being with them. He’d never thought of anyone romantically before. Until now.

“I am not, either,” Patroclus said, a smile breaking on his face.

They spent the rest of the day in a blissful trance. Patroclus felt high, caught in some beautiful dream he might wake from. He kissed Achilles goodbye that day, and watched him return to the ocean with his lips red from kissing and his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He returned giddily to the castle, certain that he’d just had the best birthday possible.

Still, it was harder for them to meet, and when they did, it was frantic, and desperate. They were addicted to each other, in love, and joyful whenever they were together. They spoke less and less of war and Phorcys and monsters; they spoke only of the future, of the things they would do, the adventures they would go on.

It was nearly six months later when Achilles stopped showing up on the beach. Patroclus did not grow suspicious until the second week came and went without a visit. It was not like Achilles to keep away for so long, even with the pressure of his mother. He was dizzy with worry. Something had obviously happened. Something, or someone, was keeping Achilles away from him.

He had no one to go to for help. No one knew about Achilles, and he could be anywhere – beneath the ocean, a thousand feet deep, where Patroclus could never find him.

He stopped eating, he could not sleep. He dreamt every night of Achilles – some nights they were together, kissing and holding each other, and in others he saw him with dark, black eyes, and blood on his hands, looking at Patroclus without recognition.

 He woke in fear, drenched in sweat, eyes wide. He felt more helpless than ever before. He went to the beach every day, calling into the water Achilles’ name. Thetis’ name. Anyone he could think of. There was no answer – only the cold, lifeless growl of the sea.

Months came, and went. Patroclus was a zombie walking through the castle. He no longer heard the boys when they taunted him, or his father’s harsh words. He thought of nothing but Achilles, and heard nothing but his own racing, miserable thoughts.

Patroclus was nearly seventeen when it happened. A body was found on the beach.

It belonged to Aineas, a fisherman of royal blood who frequented the castle, providing food and treasure from his journeys. Patroclus had seen him often growing up. His father was amused by Aineas’ stories – especially the ones about the nereids. Patroclus cringed to remember the greed in his father’s eyes when those stories were told. The red glint of the nereid scales on his crown, reflecting firelight.

The body was brought before the king, and a coroner was called to advise on the cause of death. Patroclus knew before it was even announced; it was on the lips of everyone who had been on the beach that day. Nereid attack.

The body was found almost unrecognizable. Skin torn off, bloated from prolonged time in the water, face blurred and shredded. The stories grew worse and worse as the day drew on, the rumors spread and warped. Everyone was in a panic. They demanded revenge.

There had not been a nereid attack in Patroclus’ lifetime, nor since Menoitius had taken the throne. They had become part of a fireside story, remnants of a decadent history long past. Now, once again, they were real.

“We must do something.” It was Lykaon, his father’s advisor. His face was harsh, and he looked at the corpse before him with a sort of triumph. They all knew what this meant. If this was truly a nereid attack, then the hunting could begin. Menoitius would seize this opportunity to bring unprecedented wealth to Opus, searing his name in Greek history forever.  

“We will gather men,” Menoitius’ voice rang deep across the hall. Patroclus was hiding behind a pillar, there only as a formality. He would not have had the courage to speak up in this room full of men. “We will prepare the ships. Let it be heard to the farthest kingdom. The nereids are back in the Aegean Sea, and they have already killed. We must strike hard, and fast.”

The crowd cheered, and shouted. They were angry that one of their own had been killed, and pleased by the idea of flowing wealth, and the honor that killing a nereid would bring.

Patroclus was grateful for the stone pillar that he leaned heavily against. He felt light-headed, nauseous. For months he’d been sick with worry over Achilles, and now the world was falling out from under him. There would be dozens and dozens of ships on the water, for one purpose. And he had no way to warn Achilles.

He ran back to his room when the men were dismissed, eager to gather their sailors and prepare their ships. He slammed the door behind him and reached under his bed for the crown that Achilles had given him. How many nights had he spent crying over it, trying desperately to recall the sound of Achilles’ voice, the touch of his fingers? His breathing was rapid now, and he knew that if he did not calm down, he would have an asthma attack.

The whole castle seemed alive, bustling with servants, and nobles, and merchants – everyone with only one word on their tongues. War. No one else would die from the nereids, they said. Opus would overflow with gold.

Patroclus took a deep breath, and then another. He traced the flowers and gemstones on the crown, blocking out the sounds of racing footsteps passed his door. He could not fall apart now.

Still, he could not stop seeing it. Lykaon, his father, some faceless sailor, dragging Achilles’ corpse ashore. His face lifeless, bloodied. The crowd cheering, seeing only golden scales. He could not stop it; he vomited onto the floor, his hands shaking.

He swung open the door and ran to the beach, hoping one last time that he might find Achilles. Tearing through the trees, he nearly cried out when he saw the beach crowded with people. They were pointing out into the sea and talking loudly amongst themselves. No one turned to look at him; they were all wrapped up in their gossip. It did not seem as though a man had died a tragic death just earlier that day. For the people of Opus, this was what they’d waited their lives for.


	2. Chapter 2

It did not begin all at once. As Menoitius requested, the word of Aineas’ death and the nereids’ return to Opus was spread by messengers to the farthest kingdoms of Greece, as far as Epirus and Sparta. Kings began arriving, bringing along ships and sailors and large crews that filled the halls of the palace and surrounding inns, making Opus more of a buzzing metropolis than ever before.

Business was thriving, the people were excited and optimistic, and everywhere there was talk of future wealth and success. Patroclus could not recall ever seeing his father so pleased. He might have taken time to appreciate it, if he were not consistently sick with worry over Achilles.

The attack would begin in the summer, when the Aegean Sea was at its most tranquil. The summers in Greece were temperate and warm, making it easy to sail. Menoitius and Lykaon called a council of the visiting kings – among them, Odysseus of Ithaca, Agamemnon of Mycenae, his brother, Menelaus, of Sparta, and Diomedes of Argos. He did not want friendly competition and rivalry to result in something more. He told them that each king would be allowed a portion of the sea for their raiding, and that no fighting would be tolerated between kingdoms.

Many of the more prominent kings stayed in the palace, and Patroclus heard them whispering in harsh voices to one another after the meetings. Menoitius was holding them back, they said. The Aegean Sea did not belong to him; they should be able to hunt wherever they wanted. Despite their frustration, however, no one spoke up during the councils. After all, Opus was hosting them, and a nereid had never been spotted anywhere else.

Winter was slowly coming to an end, the snow melting from the trees and the ice cracking on the lakes. Patroclus was sitting on the beach, watching the ships skim the horizon. They belonged to Opus, and were there only as a safety precaution, to ensure that no one else was killed. Patroclus had heard Agamemnon raging to Odysseus about this. Why should Menoitius’ ships be allowed to hunt early? And yet, the concern was never brought before his father.

Patroclus was certainly glad for it. If his father found out what the other kings were saying, how close they already were to conflict and summer had not yet even come, he would be livid. His father was not a natural leader, relying frequently on violence and anger to command respect. But the leaders of Sparta and Mycenae would be far more difficult to intimidate than his quivering, insecure son.

Patroclus was sitting close to the water, the sand falling slowly through his fingers. It was rare that he was alone nowadays, unless he was in his room. The beaches were always crowded with people, even during days when the winter weather was harsh. He appreciated the brief tranquility.

He heard the splash first, but thought nothing of it. He hadn’t even bothered looking up.

“Patroclus.”

_Pa-tro-clus._

His stomach dropped and his eyes flew up. He had not heard that voice in nearly a year. There was Achilles, bright green eyes and wide smile, blonde hair in waves around his face, and gold tail shining bright in the sun.

Patroclus was overcome with relief. Achilles was alive. Then, the fear hit him like a wave. The beach was no longer safe for them to meet, any minute now people would be here, guards or kings or sailors, whose entire purpose in Opus was to kill nereids.

“Achilles,” Patroclus said, breathless. He ran into the water, nearly knocking Achilles over with the force of his embrace. Achilles wrapped his arms around Patroclus, dousing him in seawater. They were laughing, dizzy with the joy of being together again.

Patroclus pulled away, his heart racing.

“It isn’t safe here anymore, Achilles,” he said, as fast as he could manage. “The whole city is filled with kings wanting to kill the nereids. They are going to launch a full attack soon. It’s only a matter of weeks.”

“I know,” Achilles said. His voice was calm, soothing. He was holding onto Patroclus’ arm as though he might run away. “I’ve been with Phorcys, preparing.”

“Do you know who it was that killed Aineas?” Patroclus asked.

“My mother thinks it was a child of Galene.” _Another sea nymph._

“You were preparing?” Patroclus asked. He was frantic. He wanted to hold onto Achilles forever, but knew that at any moment they could be interrupted. “You are going to fight back?”

“We must,” Achilles said. “Or we will all be killed.”

Patroclus could not disagree. But he did not want Achilles to fight.

“You must be careful,” he begged.

“I will.” He gave Patroclus a small smile, then, and brought their lips together. They stayed like that for a while, buried in each other’s arms, until they could hear voices in the distance.

“You must go,” Patroclus said.

Achilles touched his nose to Patroclus’.

“I will come again soon.”

“No,” Patroclus said, though it killed him to do it. “It’s too dangerous. You’ll be caught.”

“Patroclus,” he said, almost amused. “There is no one in your kingdom that can kill me.”

He kissed Patroclus again, who was too stunned to reply. Then, he was gone beneath the waves.

Patroclus’ mind was racing.

“Aren’t you freezing?” It was a woman’s voice. Patroclus turned to find a couple, looking at him with raised eyebrows. Patroclus was sitting waist deep in the water, alone. He was grateful that they did not recognize him as the prince; they were probably from another kingdom, and had come along as part of a king’s entourage.

Patroclus ran back to the palace, without a word to the couple. He was hoping that they would just forget they’d seen him. His mind was busy replaying his conversation with Achilles. Of course the nereids were aware of the attack. They were descendents of sea nymphs and gods, and not bound by the same laws as humans. Still, they were not immortal, whatever Achilles might believe. They had been killed before; the evidence was all over the Opus palace. Patroclus struggled to channel some of Achilles’ confidence.

Such was Patroclus’ worrying that he did not notice Duris in the hallway until he ran right into him.

“Patroclus.” Duris pushed him back in disgust.

“Sorry,” Patroclus muttered. They were older now, and Duris had grown bored of his relentless taunting of Patroclus. Still, he was sure to throw a few harsh words his way every now and again, just to make sure Patroclus wasn’t too comfortable.

“My father is giving me my own ship in the summer,” he said. “To hunt the nereids.”

“Congratulations,” Patroclus said, dryly. He knew Achilles would drown Duris without batting an eye. The thought made him vaguely unsettled. He did not like to think of Achilles killing anyone, even someone who might deserve it.

“I don’t even have to ask if you’ll be sailing,” Duris said, with a laugh. “You’d probably fall off the boat and drown.”

“Probably.” Patroclus tried then to walk passed Duris, eager to be alone with his thoughts. Duris grabbed his arm roughly, and pulled him back.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “You think just because you’re the prince you can do whatever you want. Just because Opus is famous again doesn’t make you anything.”

“Duris,” Patroclus said, frustration coloring his voice. “Any nereids you kill on your ship will be relinquished immediately to my father, because you sail under Opus. Any money you make will eventually become mine. Now leave me alone.”

He took Duris’ momentary shock at his words to push passed him, rushing back to his room. He did not turn around to see if Duris was angry; he did not care. What he said was not entirely true – Duris and his father would take home some of the profit. It did not matter. Duris would not be able to kill a nereid. Achilles was fighting for them, and, in his own words, he could not be defeated.

He fell onto his bed, exhausted and elated at seeing Achilles again. He could feel the warm brush of Achilles’ lips lingering on his own, salty with the sea, sweet with ambrosia. He would go back to the beach tomorrow, every day until he saw Achilles again. For the first time in a while, he felt a sort of hope for the future. He tried to ignore the footsteps of the kings as they marched through the halls, talking in loud voices about the ships they would sail, and the weapons they would use.

* * *

Patroclus saw Achilles again on the first day of summer. He soon realized that the beaches were far safer and less crowded at night, and would sneak out of his palace window around midnight to meet Achilles.

Tonight was a full moon, the silver light reflecting off Achilles’ bright green eyes, shining across his golden tail. Patroclus dipped his feet into the warm sea and gathered Achilles into his arms. It seemed strange, to sit together in silence, when the whole world was wild around them. The Opus harbor was now filled to capacity with large ships, bearing the flags of foreign countries, some famous, most unheard of. Everyone was becoming anxious, and the anxiety was leading to violence. Already there were reports of fighting amongst sailors, and extra security was called both within the palace and in the streets.

The attack would begin in a week’s time. Patroclus felt a sinking sensation in his stomach whenever he thought about it – a feeling so much worse than drowning.

“Guess what I’m thinking about,” Achilles said, his voice soft and light, like the breeze that blew across the water, gently lifting the waves.

“Figs?” Patroclus guessed. He’d brought Achilles figs from the castle gardens once as a surprise, and he’d quickly fallen in love with them. Achilles said that gods usually consumed only ambrosia, but that figs were now his favorite. He said they reminded him of Patroclus.

Achilles laughed, and nudged Patroclus gently.

“I’m thinking of Tyrrhenia,” he said. It was the name of a distant country, an island made of crystal. “I was there once, many years ago. It’s very beautiful. You would like it.”

“I would,” Patroclus said. Achilles did this often – mention names of distant lands, talking about their future together, the places they would go.

“I will take you there, one day,” Achilles said, leaning into Patroclus with a careless smile. “When this is all over.”

Patroclus wished he could shake the dread he felt. He wished he could share in Achilles’ optimism. But Achilles did not see the crazed greed in the eyes of the kings day after day; he did not see them sharpening their spears in the great hall of the palace. If he thought every human was going to be as adept in the water as Patroclus, he was in for a surprise.

“You are worried,” Achilles said. He could read Patroclus like a book. “Don’t be.”

“I can’t help it,” Patroclus said. “It is strange to think of you…as a killer.”

His words seemed to make Achilles self-conscious, and he turned away.

“It is strange for me too,” he said, after a time. “No matter what happens, I will protect you.”

Patroclus did not know what to say. He did not know why he should require protection. It wasn’t as though he’d be hunting. He asked about Phorcys, if he’d be fighting as well.

“Yes,” Achilles said. “I will be leading his army. The nereids are sacred creatures, and must be protected at all costs.”

Achilles was not only fighting, then. He was leading an entire army of sea monsters. Patroclus felt faint, and clutched at Achilles’ hands, desperate. He wanted to beg him not to fight.

But he had to, if he wanted to survive. If he did not want to see his friends and family killed and strung up on the beaches of Opus.

“Achilles,” he said, and he felt Achilles squeeze his hand in reassurance. Patroclus did not feel reassured. He felt scared out of his mind.

“It will be okay, I promise,” Achilles said. “This will be over soon and we will be together.”

“How many people will have to die before it is over?” Patroclus asked.

“As many as it will take for them to leave us alone.”

“That could be hundreds.”

“Then it will be hundreds,” Achilles said. He sounded cold, detached – how gods were meant to sound.

But Patroclus would not feel sorry for these people. They would kill Achilles if given the chance. It was the only way. Still, the idea of so much death made him uncomfortable.

Later that night he saw Achilles in his sleep, eyes bright and sparkling as he talked about all the places he’d take Patroclus. He remembered them racing in the water and Patroclus, despite growing more skilled every day, losing tragically. He remembered Achilles’ hands on his own, his ever-present comfort and kindness, his love. He did not think about death, or gods, or monsters.

* * *

It was the first day of hunting, and the castle was frantic with preparation. Menoitius had called a brief council in the morning to remind the kings of the rules and reassert that violence against one another was strictly prohibited.

Patroclus was outside on the beach, watching the sailors prepare the ships.

“Who do you suppose will make the first kill?”

Patroclus looked over to see Odysseus, speaking with Diomedes. He recognized the kings easily now, after seeing them in the palace for months. He could not say that he liked any of them.

“Menoitius, probably,” Diomedes said, angrily. “He’s given himself the best part of the sea. Exactly where the nereid was spotted, months ago.”

“Still, we fared better than Agamemnon. He is all the way east, near Scyros.”

“That is if he adheres to the chosen lots,” Diomedes said, and spat into the water. “Which he won’t.”

Their conversation trailed off as they disappeared onto their ships, preparing to sail. Patroclus considered perhaps that the nereids would have no need to fight – the kings seemed ready to kill one another and save them the trouble.

It was not long before Lykaon and Duris showed up, trailing behind them an entourage of sailors – those who were not already sailing with the king.

“That is your ship,” Lykaon said, pointing to a decently sized vessel, brand new with bright white sails and polished wood. Duris looked proud aboard his ship, commanding the sailors as though he’d been doing this his entire life.

Soon all the kings were ready and Menoitius offered a brief sacrifice and prayer to Poseidon for a successful hunting. Patroclus could hardly stand the irony – did they not realize that their very actions were directly against the wishes of Poseidon? He would hardly aid them in this, regardless of how many goats they sacrificed.

It was a warm summer’s day, and the sky was blue and calm. The wind was strong, pushing the ships easily from the harbor. Patroclus watched with trepidation as they spread across the sea, some staying close to the harbor, others disappearing in time over the horizon. He seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for something. He recalled the first time he’d seen Thetis, how she was able to change the weather and the state of the sea. He remembered Achilles creating a tidal wave over their heads without even batting an eye. He clenched his fists, paralyzed, waiting on the beach for some sign that the battle had begun.

The beach was crowded with tourists and onlookers. Patroclus heard them talking wildly and taking bets on who would make the first kill. Agamemnon seemed to be the popular favorite – he was well known for his violence, pride, and skill with a spear.

The sun was low in the sky when the ships returned. Everyone crowded the harbor, cheering, trying to get a look at the kings. Each ship had been given a red flag to wave if they’d been successful. Today, no flags were raised. Everyone returned to the city, energized with the excitement of the day. The kings, however, were furious at their lack of success.

“There probably aren’t any nereids here,” Diomedes said, busily taking down his sails and shouting to anyone who would listen. “Has anyone actually seen one?”

“I saw the body of Aineas,” Lykaon said. “Just because you’ve failed does not mean they are not here.”

“You have not been successful either,” Diomedes said, angry.

Patroclus followed the kings back into the palace and into the great hall where they would feast to the first day of hunting. He was eager to hear their stories. Diomedes and Lykaon had been unsuccessful, but perhaps someone else had seen something. He needed to know.

He quickly found Duris, drinking a cup of red wine, sulking as he was ignored by the kings.

“Duris,” he said. “Did you see anything?”

Duris looked at him with momentary surprise, which he quickly replaced with a look of haughtiness and disgust.

“Yes,” he said, taking a long drink of wine. Patroclus waited for him to properly show off how much of a man he was before sighing and saying, “well?”

“I saw a nereid. I threw my spear, but it didn’t catch. I will be more successful tomorrow. My father says I’m the best spear hunter he’s ever seen.”

“You saw a nereid?” Patroclus asked. He was beginning to regret asking Duris – he could not tell when he was exaggerating, or telling the truth.

“Yes,” Duris said. “The sailors say I imagined it, but it’s true.”

“That’s—” Patroclus began, but was interrupted by sudden shouting on the other end of the hall, and the shattering of glass.

It was no surprise that the shouting belonged to Agamemnon. He was standing on a chair and seemed about to give a speech. He saw his father sitting anxious on his throne, livid.

“It should not be up to Menoitius to decide where we are permitted to hunt.” Agamemnon’s voice was rough, commanding. “We are all of us kings of Greece, and the Aegean Sea does not belong to one man. I say we hunt wherever we like.”

There were a few drunken cheers from the men. Many, however, seemed hesitant to agree with such a brash statement. They were not as powerful as Agamemnon, and could not afford to insult the King of Opus.

“The King of Mycenae raises a valid point,” Menoitius began, barely able to contain his rage. His voice was shaking with anger despite his struggle to appear patient. “But I ask him, how does he then suppose to keep the peace between kingdoms, with everyone doing as they please?”

“You have already said that violence against one another will not be tolerated,” Agamemnon said. “This is not violence, it is competition.”

Despite his father’s obvious discretion and fury at being defied in his own kingdom, Patroclus was pleased with Agamemnon’s suggestion. All the kings together in the sea, quarreling with one another, meant way less attention paid to the nereids. He knew that despite Agamemnon’s promise of friendly competition, they would be unable to keep from fighting.

Menoitius could not deny Agamemnon’s request, when the other kings – Diomedes and Odysseus included – expressed a more polite, but assertive, agreement.

It was decided that the next day the Aegean Sea would be open territory. Every king would hunt where they please, and may the best man win.

The dinner continued on after that, the kings becoming more and more intoxicated, slowly forgetting the disagreement, dispelling the heavy tension that had been in the air.

Patroclus sat on a bench in the corner, exhausted despite the unproductive day. He wanted to go down to the beach and see Achilles.

“You are the king’s son,” a voice boomed behind him. “Patroclus.”

He turned to see Odysseus.

“Yes,” he answered. His voice was deeper now, but still lacked confidence. He was only ever sure of himself around Achilles.

“You are not hunting?” Odysseus’ tone was friendly enough, but Patroclus was distrustful of this man who wanted to take Achilles away from him.

“I do not have the skill,” he said. It was true. Spear-hunting had become a part of lessons after Aineas’ death, and Patroclus had proven expectedly uncoordinated.

“It is wise for the future king of Opus to have some skill hunting,” Odysseus said. It was a passing comment, not a judgment. “Especially with the history your kingdom has with sea monsters.”

Patroclus did not know what to say, so he settled for blinking his large, brown eyes. He was staring at his feet.

“Well, I suppose you may be forced to learn sooner rather than later,” Odysseus said, and his words surprised Patroclus. He looked up. “I doubt the nereids are particular about who they attack. You should be able to defend yourself.”

“All right,” Patroclus said. Odysseus nodded, and walked away without another word.

He did not visit the beach that night. There were too many people around, and he could not justify putting Achilles in danger.

* * *

It was another five days before a ship returned with a red flag raised. Patroclus had not been able to meet with Achilles, and knew only what he witnessed and heard from the other kings. It had been quiet, and many people were becoming anxious with anticipation and disappointment. Now, the cheering from the beach was deafening. The ship was still too far away to identify. However, as it drew closer, the flags of Mycenae were easily recognizable amongst the rippling sails and red flag cut like a gash across the pale sky. Patroclus’ blood went cold. A nereid had been killed, then. The first one in nearly five decades.

Agamemnon’s ship was swarmed as it docked, and guards were forced to draw weapons in order to quell the chaos. Patroclus wanted to join them, push his way to the front, see what it was that Agamemnon had killed. But he could not. No matter how hard he tried, his legs were like liquid beneath him, and they refused to carry him across the beach. He felt suspended in time, waiting for the eventual fall out. It could not be Achilles. It was impossible.

He saw Agamemnon jump onto the dock from his ship, dragging something behind him. It was easy to recognize the nereid – they were nearly identical to mermaids save for the flashing scales of their tails, making them endlessly valuable. Agamemnon dragged the body onto the wooden deck by its tail. Patroclus let out a breath. The tail was a dark green. His knees gave way beneath him and he sank onto the sand watching the onlookers crowd the King of Mycenae, shouting question after question about how he’d killed it, had anything happened, had there been any casualties. One, he said. A young sailor who’d been pulled into the water, alerting them to the nereid’s presence.

Patroclus sat there, motionless, watching the lifeless body of the nereid in Agamemnon’s hands, its face so unmistakably human. It looked young, no older than him, or Achilles. He watched the onlookers approach cautiously, touching its body and tail with greedy fingers, seeing only something evil, dangerous. Seeing something that would bring the Mycenaean kingdom wealth and glory. Patroclus felt sick again, and knew he was going to vomit. He could not stop seeing Agamemnon holding Achilles’ body like that, and everyone cheering. They would not care that he was kind, or gentle, or had someone who loved him more than anything in the world.

Patroclus waited for the rest of the ships to return – thankful when no others donned the red flag – and ran back to the castle. He did not attend the celebratory feast. He knew what it would be – Agamemnon’s boasting, the lustful eyes of every other king, and his father on his throne, brooding.

* * *

The kills came with more frequency after that. Five total, by the end of the month. Three by Agamemnon, one by Odysseus, and the last by Menoitius. The bodies of the nereids were brought to the palace, descaled, and burned. The scales were brought to Menoitius’ personal jewelers for cleaning and preparation. They were then given to the kings, who could do with them as they wished. Already the nobles could be seen wearing necklaces and pendants made of the green and copper scales of the nereids that had been killed. Patroclus tried not to stare as they walked passed. He did not want to think about a knife being brought across Achilles’ tail, the blood, the slicing and carving. He ran down to the beach every night, hoping to find Achilles there.

But he did not come. Patroclus couldn’t blame him. It was dangerous and now that summer was in full swing, the beaches were very rarely empty, even during the nighttime hours. Bars had opened up near the water, catering to the increasing number of people staying at the inns. Having grown up in Opus when it was barely even a city, Patroclus found it maddening.

He was sitting in his room, Achilles’ flower crown in his hands when he heard a knock on his door. Stashing the flower crown under his bed, he jumped up to find Duris standing before him.

“Patroclus,” Duris said. He made a motion like he might come in. Patroclus did not want to get into a fight and stepped aside for him. He walked in slowly, and his eyes did not meet Patroclus’. Duris had gone out hunting again today, and still had nothing to show for it. This fact made Patroclus far too happy.

“What is it?” Patroclus asked. Duris was standing there in the middle of the room, looking lost.

“It will begin soon,” he said. Patroclus had never heard Duris’ voice sound like that – blank, empty of all taunting and mockery. He was waiting for Duris to laugh, for this all to be a joke, but his eyes were distant, unseeing.

“What will begin soon?” Patroclus prompted. He did not know whether to be annoyed or concerned. He could hear the loud voices of the celebrating kings all the way from the great hall, despite his room being a good distance away. The window was open and the summer breeze gently blew his brown hair around his face.

“The fight,” Duris said, and finally he looked up to meet Patroclus’ eyes. There was a sense of urgency in them that did not make sense. “And you must be careful. Do you understand? Don’t go near the water. Don’t get onto a ship. No matter what.”

“What fight?” Patroclus asked. He stepped closer to Duris, panicked. “How do you know all this?”

“Achilles says…he will watch out for you, but you should still be cautious. The attack is coming soon.”

Patroclus’ breath caught at the mention of Achilles’ name. Duris had seen Achilles? He had seen him and somehow had not gone running to his father, to the king, blabbing about a golden-tailed nereid? It did not make any sense.

Then Patroclus remembered – _hypnosis._ Achilles had probably done it today, when Duris was sailing. News of Achilles would have spread like wildfire, so he must not have been seen. Patroclus did not know how long the hypnosis would last, and wanted to get Duris out of his room before he became suspicious about why exactly he was there.

“Okay, thank you, Duris,” he said, nudging him towards the door.

“Patroclus,” Duris said, walking slowly. He was in the hallway now and Patroclus had been just about to slam the door in his face. “I’m sorry for anything cruel I said to you. The truth is I am overcompensating for the fact that I have a terrible personality and no one really likes me.”

Patroclus had frequently relayed to Achilles stories of his torment at the hands of Duris. He rolled his eyes a little. Achilles may have gone a little overboard with the hypnosis.

Finally, Duris left, and Patroclus was once again alone with his thoughts. Achilles had sent him a warning. The attack will begin soon.  He had grown suspicious about the quietness from the sea – he had not expected five deaths to go unpunished. Still, Achilles clearly expected the counter-attack to be huge. He knew what Phorcys’ army consisted of – creatures from horror stories, the sea nymphs, and Achilles. It would be a miracle if there were any survivors.

That night, Patroclus could not sleep. He had nightmares of drowning, of bodies strewn along the beach. Achilles as a killer, as a corpse. He tossed and turned until the sun was once again shining, lighting up his room in a pale orange glow. He did not know what to do. Normally he would have gone to the beach and watched the ships. But Achilles had specifically told him to stay away. He anxiously paced the length of his room, listening as the kings and sailors prepared for the day’s hunt. They did not expect anything to be different. They did not expect that today they might die.

Patroclus paced around the castle like a mad man, flitting in and out of rooms, unseeing, lost in his own thoughts, eager for any news. The castle was near enough the water, but it was surrounded by a high wall that made it impossible to see out unless from an upper floor. Patroclus watched anxiously from the balcony, but saw nothing that would indicate a fight was taking place. The ships were small dots on the sea, and the water was peaceful and calm.

Then, a cold raindrop hit his face. He startled, wiping it away. There had not been a cloud in the sky a moment ago. Another raindrop, then another. Hitting against the stone railing of the balcony, creating deep waves in the water. The rain was falling heavy now, a thick wall of grey between Patroclus and the sea.  He felt dread pool in his stomach. The attack was coming.

He heard it first – a roar, like the scraping of a ship against a stone floor. Then, screaming. People were running in hoards from the beach, in panic. Even from a distance away, Patroclus could see them scurrying like bugs through the streets, hiding behind the walls of the palace. He saw the tail of some monstrous beast peak above the ocean and, just like that, a ship disappeared, snatched beneath the waves. Then another. Patroclus watched with wide eyes at the destruction before him. The ships that had not yet capsized or disappeared were rushing back to the harbor. The rain made it impossible to hear, but Patroclus could imagine the harsh orders of the captains – Agamemnon, Odysseus, his father, in full panic.

Patroclus was hit with the realization, then, that his father could very likely be dead. Instead of feeling sadness, however, he felt only anxiety. He was not ready to lead a kingdom.

Thankfully, he was saved from such a fate. As the rain cleared and the kings began rushing into the great hall, drenched, wind-swept, wearing matching expressions of shock, he saw his father amongst them. Their eyes were wild and frantic, as though they had been to the underworld and back again. They were talking all at once.

“It was Ladon,” Odysseus said, wiping the salt-water from his face. “I saw it take down the ship from Pieria.”

“It must have been the sea nymphs, as well,” Diomedes added, his usual angry tone infected with fear. “That storm came out of nowhere. There were no signs.”

Agamemnon stormed through the doors, soaked to his skin and yet, surprisingly, looking far more put together than the other kings. The hall was filled with the kings and sailors who had made it back. It was easy for Patroclus to blend into the crowd. He watched his father eye Agamemnon with suspicion. He was the king; he was responsible for gaining control of the situation.

“I saw it,” Agamemnon said. “It sunk the ship right beside mine. Lykaon’s.”

Menoitius paled at the news. Lykaon was his trusted advisor; they had known each other for years. Despite his hatred for Duris, Patroclus could not help but feel sadness for him. He knew that he was close to his father in a way that Patroclus could never know.

“A nereid,” Agamemnon continued. “With a golden tail.”

Patroclus’ heart stopped.

“Impossible,” Odysseus said, dismissively. “It was Ladon, as I said.”

“It was Ladon and the nereid both,” Agamemnon said. “But the nereid was worse. It sunk the ship without even moving a muscle. With its mind.”

“There has never been a nereid with a tail made of gold before,” Menoitius said, slowly. He did not want to contradict Agamemnon and risk an argument. Plus, Patroclus would have to have been blind not to see the excitement in his father’s eyes at the mention of gold.

“I saw it,” Agamemnon said, anger in his voice. “Ask any sailor aboard my ship.”

They all went to talk at once, frantic, impossible to understand. One thing was clear, however – Achilles had been seen. It was Patroclus’ worst fear come true. He wanted to scream, to fall to his knees and ask them to please, leave this be. But, of course, he would not. And even if he had, they would not have listened. There was only one incentive more enticing than the promise of gold – revenge.

“We will plan a counter attack,” Menoitius said. “We must learn everything we can about the creatures we face.”

And so the kings closed themselves off in a council room, barring the doors to Patroclus. He ran down to the beach, fear overpowering and consuming him.

He did not stop until he was halfway into the Aegean Sea, the now-calm water lapping gently against his waist.

“Achilles,” he whispered. The beach was deserted; everyone was too terrified to come after the events of the day. The streets, usually so busy with conversation and music, were quiet and eerie.

He said Achilles’ name again and again. He felt crazed. These kings, so dangerous and violent and powerful, had seen Achilles. No matter what stories they told of the destruction he’d caused, he could never see Achilles as a weapon or a killer. To him, Achilles would always be his beautiful friend who showed him what it was like to be happy, to laugh, to not always be afraid. Achilles was the one he loved more than anything in the world. He hated thinking that these kings had seen him, would stop at nothing until he was dead. It didn’t make sense. He felt half-mad standing there, whispering Achilles’ name like a chant.

Finally, he saw movement in the water. The golden reflection in the water was unmistakable. Patroclus was nearly faint with relief.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said. Patroclus fell into his arms, burying his face in Achilles’ neck, running his fingers through his hair. He did not want to ever let go.

He kissed him, tasting the salt on his lips.

“Are you okay?” Achilles asked, his fingers twirled in Patroclus’ hair. “Did you receive my warning?”

“Yes,” Patroclus said, breathless. “But Achilles, the kings – they’ve seen you. Agamemnon is telling them right now. They’re planning a counter attack.”

“It is all right,” Achilles said, gently stroking Patroclus’ hair, his arms, his cheeks. “They are not a threat to me.”

“Achilles,” Patroclus said again. He was desperate now to make Achilles understand. “These are the kings of Greece. They will not stop unless they are dead.”

“Is this a problem for you?” Achilles asked. “Their deaths?”

The question took Patroclus by surprise.

“I—” he began, hesitating. “I suppose there is no other way.”

Achilles nodded. “It is the only way.”

Patroclus dropped his eyes. He could not say why he felt so sick thinking about the deaths of these men. He didn’t like them, or trust them, or even care about them. But there was something in Achilles’ eyes now, a darkness that had not been there before. It worried him.

“Have you been spending much time with your father?” Patroclus asked. _Phorcys._

“We have been planning attacks together,” Achilles said. “He has been teaching me ways to channel my power.”

It was easy for Achilles to read the hidden meaning in Patroclus’ question. They could practically read each other’s minds at this point.

“Patroclus,” he said. “I do not like this. The killing. You know it is not something I enjoy.”

“I know,” Patroclus said, and he felt guilty. Achilles was doing this out of desperation and here Patroclus was criticizing him for it. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Achilles said, and he touched his nose gently against Patroclus’. “I just hope you can forgive me, when this is all over.”

“I will have no need to forgive you,” Patroclus said. He smiled, then, reassuringly. If the alternative was Achilles’ death, he would have to live with the deaths of these men. It was a small price to pay.

* * *

The kings of Greece set back to the sea with new determination. They no longer cared about killing nereids – they cared only about killing one. Its death would bring not only abundant wealth to the king who was able to accomplish it, but eternal glory as well. The golden-tailed nereid was all anyone talked about. Patroclus could not pass through the halls without hearing Achilles mentioned. It nearly sent him into a panic every time. He struggled to keep his breathing calm and remember Achilles’ words. There was no one in Greece that could defeat him, he’d said. Patroclus had no need to worry.

As the days passed on and more and more ships were lost to the power of Achilles and his monster army – for Patroclus heard frequently now of the sea creatures that fought alongside him – the kings became increasingly desperate, and angry. The people of Opus could not believe that an entire army of Greece’s best had yet to defeat a single nereid. It no longer mattered how many they’d killed before, their pride and reputations were on the line.

It was on a particularly scorching day that Menoitius decided to raise the stakes. He called the kings to a meeting in the great hall. Patroclus was drenched in sweat. There had hardly been a breeze the past few days, making sailing difficult and everyone irritable. Perhaps the weather had contributed to Menoitius’ decision to call a council. Everyone was frustrated by the stagnation of the hunting, which had begun so glorious and fruitful.

“I suggest we raise the stakes of this competition.” Menoitius was sitting on his throne, towering above the other kings. Patroclus was in his usual place, hiding behind a pillar and watching with wary eyes.

“I wasn’t aware this was still considered a competition,” Odysseus said. “We have lost nearly half the men we’ve come with. This is war.”

There was a murmur of assent. Menoitius narrowed his eyes.

“It is still a competition between kings,” he said. “Or are we all working together to kill the nereid? Do you not care who does it, as long as it is done?”

“I did not say that,” Odysseus said.

“The one to kill the nereid will receive not only their weight in gold, but jewels, horses, and prizes from my own storage. As much as Opus can give.”

Patroclus was not the only one in the room who was shocked. He considered that perhaps Lykaon’s death had hit his father harder than he’d thought. It was strange to think his father capable of emotions like sadness or kindness, when he’d never shown any to Patroclus.

“Why raise the stakes now?” Menelaus asked. “Do you think we are holding back?”

“As Odysseus said, this is war. The people of Opus are too scared to use the beaches, and business is suffering. The nereid must die, and soon. I am merely attempting to expedite the process. This is further incentive.”

The kings nodded their agreement. They were now even more determined to win the prize, and Menoitius hoped to once again reap the benefits of tourism in Opus.

The council was dismissed, and Patroclus ran to the beach. He waited there for several hours, but did not see Achilles. He tried to ignore the heaviness in his heart as he walked back to the castle, dragging his feet through the gardens that were now in full bloom under the summer sun. He frequently spent time in the gardens as a child, closing his eyes and listening to the hum of the cicadas and the chirping of the birds. Of course, he soon realized that he was allergic to most of the flowers, and was kept away by incessant sneezing and coughing.

He was startled when he saw a figure in the garden, crouched low, gathering plants into a small sack. When the figure looked up, he recognized Odysseus.

“Prince,” Odysseus addressed him, nodding his head politely. He did not look at all alarmed or embarrassed to be found slinking around the gardens.

“What are you doing?” Patroclus asked. He did not recognize the plant that Odysseus was hoarding, but was certain his father would not be pleased to find his gardens being picked at by the visiting king.

“Do you know this plant?” Odysseus asked, holding it up. It was a dark green branch with small white flowers growing from it. Patroclus shook his head; he did not know much about plants.

“It’s called _conium_ ,” he said. “Or hemlock. It’s very poisonous. I’m sure your father has a very good reason for growing it here.”

Patroclus paled, startled by the implication.

“Fortunately for me, I have only the best intentions for gathering it.”

Patroclus waited for Odysseus to elaborate.

“You’re going to poison someone?” he asked, when the king did not continue.

Odysseus laughed as though Patroclus had made a joke.

“I am going to make this into a soluble liquid, release it into the water, and kill the nereid.”

Patroclus waited a moment for Odysseus to admit that he was just kidding.

“You plan on poisoning the entire sea,” he said, not understanding.

“No, I’m afraid that would be impossible,” Odysseus said with a casual laugh. “And your father would likely kill me. Our spears and weapons are all but useless against this creature. You’ve never seen it, so you wouldn’t know. It can change the state of the sea in an instant, overturn our boats with just a glance. But it is a sea creature, nonetheless. If the water it swims in is poisoned, then it will be easier to defeat.”

“How do you know that plant is poisonous to nereids?” Patroclus asked.

“I don’t. But I also do not know a single creature that is unaffected. If it does not die, it will at least be paralyzed.”

Patroclus felt as though he were choking on the air around them, stiff with heat and humidity. He needed to tell Achilles about this – he would not be expecting poison.

“Are you all right?” Odysseus asked. “You seem faint.”

“I—” Patroclus began. His heart was pounding in his chest. “The heat. And I’m allergic to flowers.”

“Well, let’s get you back to the castle then.”

“I just need some fresh air,” Patroclus said. He ran off, back the way he’d come towards the water. He would wait there the entire night until he saw Achilles. He would not let Odysseus poison him. He could picture it in his head like a vision – Achilles lying face-up in the water, eyes closed, unmoving, paralyzed. Completely vulnerable. He could see it easily; Achilles had frequently lain like that when they’d played together in the water as children, when he’d first taught Patroclus how to swim.

He did not know what time it was when Achilles finally arrived, only that it had been dark for several hours and the moon was low in the sky.

“Patroclus,” Achilles greeted. “What is it?”

“Odysseus is going to poison the water,” Patroclus said, in a rushed whisper. “He plans on making something out of hemlock.”

Achilles’ eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He had probably not heard of the plant, either.

“I will ask my mother what to do,” he said, after a time. “Do you know when?”

“No,” Patroclus said. “But soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” Achilles assured. “We will do something.”

“I can’t stand this.” He allowed himself to be pulled into Achilles’ arms. “I want this to be over.”

“Me too, Patroclus,” Achilles said. His voice was soft, like a hum.  Like the song he’d heard when they’d first met. He felt calmer hearing it. “Soon, I promise. Where should we go first? Troy?”

“What’s in Troy?” Patroclus asked, with a smile. He loved when Achilles was like this, speaking of the future as though only tomorrow they’d be going on adventures.

“Hmm,” Achilles considered. He was holding Patroclus’ hands, stroking his fingers gently. They were pressed together so that Patroclus could feel the gold scales of Achilles’ tail against his legs. “Wine, women, riches beyond belief.”

“Maybe not,” Patroclus said. He pressed a kiss to Achilles’ lips. “What about Rome?”

They were like this until the sun was beginning to peak above the horizon. Patroclus yawned, burying his face in Achilles’ chest. He wished he could fall asleep there, with Achilles’ arms around him. But he knew he could not.

“I must go,” Achilles said, “and speak with my mother about the poison. I will see you again soon.”

He was gone beneath the waves, and Patroclus felt cold despite the warmth of another summer’s day. He made his way back to the castle. It was still quiet. Everyone would be asleep for at least another hour or two. He fell into bed, exhausted, smelling of the sea.

* * *

He was awoken by loud shouts from the great hall. He could hear the vibrations of their voices even with his door closed. He hurried down the hallway, grateful for the chill of the stone against his feet. The air was particularly stifling today, and he was nearly delirious with it.

The wide doors to the great hall were opened, and Patroclus had barely entered before he saw Agamemnon with his sword drawn, looking positively outraged.

“No one is accusing you of anything, King of Mycenae.” This was Odysseus’ voice. He looked properly threatened, next to Diomedes. “I am merely saying it is a coincidence.”

“And yet you said to me,” Agamemnon’s voice was a growl. “Isn’t it strange that I, being the best spearman in all of Greece, have yet to kill the nereid?”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Odysseus said, eyebrows raised. “Not an accusation.”

“Either way,” Menoitius interrupted. He seemed torn between the two kings. “A threat from a sea nymph should not be taken lightly. Which one was it, again?”

“Thetis,” Odysseus said, exasperated. Patroclus stiffened at the name. Achilles’ mother had visited Odysseus, then. “And the fact she threatened me is hardly the most concerning part of this. She was made aware of my plan with the poison.”

“A plan I wish I had been informed of,” Menoitius bristled. “Considering it would have affected the lives of everyone in Opus.”

“The poison would have dissolved in a matter of hours,” Diomedes said. “It would not have affected the safety of the people.”

“It was from my gardens, nonetheless.”

“Can we focus?” Odysseus asked. “Someone told Thetis my plan. Someone here has had contact with the sea nymphs and, by extension, the nereid we’re hunting.”

“Who knew of your plan?” Agamemnon asked, finally lowering his sword.

“You,” Odysseus said. “Diomedes. Menelaus. Myself. And Briseis, the palace’s healer.”

Briseis was the daughter of a slave girl won as a prize before Patroclus was born. She was adept at medicine and surgery, making her valuable enough to keep in the palace as a servant. Patroclus rarely saw her.

“Briseis?” Menoitius seemed offended. “Why?”

“She concocted the poison for me,” Odysseus said, casually. “I’m afraid I do not have the skill for it myself. I told her that I asked with your blessing. Apologies.”

“I see you’ve been making yourself at home, Odysseus,” Menoitius said, not bothering to mask his annoyance.

Patroclus stood frozen in the doorway. He’d not even considered that they might think someone had tipped off the sea nymphs. He assumed that Thetis would come up with some magical immunity to the poison, instead of making a direct threat.

But, of course, now they suspected a rat. Patroclus tried to remain calm; having an asthma attack right now would only attract attention and make him look guilty. Odysseus did not seem to remember that he’d told Patroclus about his plan with the poison, and he would be an unlikely suspect besides. Patroclus was known throughout the palace for being weak, stupid, and unskilled. He did not go on hunts. He had no connection with the nereids.

“You told no one else?” Menoitius asked. He had not taken his usual seat on the throne and so stood amongst the men, looking out of place. “No sailors, no girls?”

“No one else,” Odysseus said. Patroclus was holding his breath.

“Then it is one of you,” Menoitius said. Diomedes, Agamemnon, and Menelaus stood before him, each looking properly offended by the accusation. Agamemnon was gripping his sword violently.

“I will not stand here and be accused of conspiring with monsters,” he said.

“Could it not be Briseis?” Diomedes suggested. “The girl? How much do you know about her?”

“Impossible,” Menoitius said, with a wave of his hand. “She can hardly speak the language and she never leaves the castle.”

“I pointed out earlier,” Odysseus’ words were slow, cautious. “It is strange that Agamemnon has yet to kill the nereid. How many more kings will die before you do something?”

“I have gone out every day and raided alongside you,” Agamemnon raged. “If you think this is some scheme to kill off the other kings of Greece, think again. If I wanted you dead, I would do it myself.”

“It could be hypnosis, then,” Odysseus suggested, ignoring Agamemnon’s anger. “One of us could have seen the nereid without even realizing it.”

“A sailor would have seen it,” Diomedes said.

“But it would be impossible to know for sure.”

The arguing continued, and soon Patroclus was unable to follow their conversation. Later that day Menoitius called a council of the remaining kings and nobles. He announced that someone among them was helping the other side. He did not offer a reward for information leading to said person. When this person was found, he said, there would be one punishment – death. No mitigation, no mercy.

His father’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, from a different world. Extra precautions would be taken to ensure that no one returned from the voyages hypnotized. Paranoia was carved on the face of every sailor, every king. They spoke of the crime as heinous, deplorable. Patroclus’ mouth was dry and his heart fast. He watched Odysseus from the shadows. It was only a matter of time until he remembered seeing Patroclus in the garden. It was only a matter of time until they knew.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The attacks continued as before, the death toll rising. The beaches and buildings close to the water were frequently deserted, deemed too dangerous to occupy. Tidal waves would often come ashore now, destroying all in their path. It was chaos in Opus, and the kings regarded each other with growing suspicion as the days went on. Before entering the palace, everyone would be subjected to a series of questions in order to prove that they were not under the power of hypnosis. Patroclus, of course, was exempt from such practices, as it was well known that he did not sail.

Many of the lesser kings had since returned to their countries, knowing full well that they would not be able to defeat these monsters that terrorized the kingdom of Opus. The only ones hunting now were Menoitius, Menelaus, Agamemnon, Diomedes, and Odysseus. Duris would sometimes take out his ship, but it was very rare. Patroclus no longer saw much of him after his father’s death. He kept mostly to himself.

Fall was approaching and the wind sent a chill through the air. The sea was constantly rough and dark, an ever-present danger and threat to the castle hiding behind its tall stone walls. It was easier, however, for Patroclus to meet with Achilles. When the ships were not sailing, the beaches were always empty. Menoitius had attempted to set up a guard to watch from the shore, but they were never at their posts. They had seen too many bystanders taken into the sea and drowned by rogue waves or the tail of a mysterious beast.

Patroclus approached the gates of the castle, hoping to meet with Achilles. It was nearly sunset. He stopped short when he saw Odysseus standing there at the entrance, being questioned by a guard. He lowered his head and took a deep breath.

“Your name is?” the guard asked.

“Odysseus.”

“And you rule where?”

Patroclus was almost there, just passed the doors, when he heard Odysseus call his name. He turned.

“Yes?” he said, cringing at the shakiness of his voice. He might as well wear a sign on his forehead proclaiming him guilty.

“I hope you are not thinking of going down to the beach,” Odysseus said.

“No,” Patroclus answered, too fast. “I am going into town.”

“Good, good.” He seemed distracted. The guard was waiting patiently to continue his questioning. “It is very dangerous out there. Someone like you would certainly not survive.”

A pause.

“I do not mean it offensively.”

Patroclus nodded, and all but ran from the castle gates. He went into town first and walked around a bit, paranoid that he was being followed, or watched. Deep down he knew that he was being ridiculous. There was no one in the castle that suspected him, certainly not Odysseus. Still, he could not shake the anxiety he felt. He did not go down to the beach that day.

In fact, it was another week before Patroclus worked up the courage to visit Achilles. The attacks had been put on halt for the day in order to rest, repair ships, and deal with the wounded. He saw Briseis more frequently now, as she was often called to the great hall to deal with the gaping wounds and deep gashes from the nereid attacks. Patroclus could not stand to see the men writhing on the tables, clutching helplessly at their stomachs as blood ran from their fingers. He could not stand to think that Achilles might have done that.

It was dusk when he snuck from the castle. There were no guards posted, since there had been no attacks that day and no kings were returning. He sat on the beach for only a moment before Achilles joined him. His eyes looked black in the fading daylight, and he smiled sadly at Patroclus.

“I missed you,” he said. They kissed and held each other like always.  

“Me too,” Patroclus said, burying his nose in Achilles’ damp hair. “There is increased security in the castle. It is sometimes hard for me to leave.”

“I understand,” Achilles said. “I am sorry that my mother’s plan caused so much fuss for you. I should have insisted on something else.”

“You’re alive. That’s what is important.”

“It is almost over,” Achilles said. “Phorcys and I have spoken with Poseidon, and he will aid the next attack. There will be no survivors.”

Patroclus paled. He could not say what exactly he was feeling. Fear, for the kings, for his father. And also relief. He wanted this to be over. He could not stand the constant worrying, the perpetual anxiety that one day Achilles would be brought into the castle as a corpse. He did not know what to say. He stared out into the sea, dark waves pounding against the shore.

“Hmm,” Achilles said, touching Patroclus’ hand softly and entwining their fingers. “What are you thinking?”

“Guess,” Patroclus said. He could not help a small smile. Their moments together seemed suspended from reality, as though they took place in another world.

“Figs?” Achilles asked, smiling now too.

Patroclus shoved him, gently. It had been a while since he’d brought Achilles figs from the tree in their garden. He’d been hesitant to go there again, and pass the hemlock that his father had, for some reason, saw fit to grow. The whole place seemed tainted, incriminating.

Achilles had wanted to do something about Odysseus at first. He’d said that it wasn’t worth keeping him alive if he was a threat to Patroclus. But Patroclus could not be directly responsible for the death of a man. He did not want to live with that guilt.

“I’m thinking about the day we met,” Patroclus said, remembering the day he’d almost drowned. He remembered, vaguely, wishing he had.

“I was so nervous,” Achilles said. They were so close Patroclus could feel his heart beating, a comforting rhythm. “I thought you would try to kill me.”

This surprised Patroclus. He never envisioned himself as particularly threatening.

“If I had tried,” Patroclus admitted. “It would have been an incredibly pathetic attempt.”

“You underestimate yourself. You always do.”

Patroclus blushed.

“I’ve been doing some research,” Achilles said. His cheeks were flushed, and Patroclus could tell that he was embarrassed. “There is an herb that grows on the island of Thrinacia. It is far from here but– the herb, it said to turn a man into– well, a sort of sea god.”

“Like Glaucus,” Patroclus said, remembering the story.

“If you wanted to try it, we could.” Achilles’ words were hesitant, careful. He did not expect Patroclus to want to. “We could be together.”

“I want to try it,” Patroclus said. He did not have to think about it. If the choice was between an eternity with Achilles and a lifetime in Opus attempting to rule a kingdom after his father’s death, then it was not a choice at all. He smiled reassuringly and pressed a kiss to Achilles’ lips.

The relief on Achilles’ face was sweet, and they held each other, laughing, excited for the future in a way they hadn’t been since the war had begun. They were lost in each other’s eyes, seeing nothing else but the other. They did not hear the branches breaking in the forest surrounding the beach, the footsteps on the sand.

“Patroclus.” He recognized the voice, but it sounded different than he’d ever heard it. Duris. The laughter died in his mouth. He turned slowly, watching Achilles next to him, his wide green eyes flashing bright before turning and disappearing into the water.

The expression on Duris’ face was unreadable. Shock, fear, disbelief. Patroclus stood slowly. There was no use hoping that Duris had not seen. They had been careless, and now Patroclus would have to pay the price. He sighed. He felt scared and angry, and yet he had known it was only a matter of time.

Tomorrow, Achilles had said, the kings would all be dead. He had only needed to last another day.

“You’re friends with it,” Duris said. His voice was flat. “The nereid we’re hunting.”

Patroclus did not know what to say. He could not lie. He remained silent.

“It killed my father,” Duris continued. He was backing up slowly through the trees, as though Patroclus might try and attack him. It was almost funny, in a way. Duris had spent his entire life terrorizing Patroclus and now he was afraid of him. Justice would have been sweet if Patroclus was not so utterly trapped. “It killed so many people.”

“Duris—” Patroclus began, and his voice seemed to break the trance that Duris had fallen under. He turned and ran back to the castle, faster than Patroclus could ever hope to be.

Patroclus was paralyzed. He turned back to the sea, but there was no sign of Achilles. He did not know what to do. He contemplated briefly running away. Instead, he walked back to the castle. He knew the punishment for conspiring with the nereid; he heard it repeated every day. Death. He passed through the gates of the castle, still unguarded, like a zombie. He thought of Achilles. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to say goodbye.

* * *

It was quiet in the castle when he returned. He did not know what he expected. The wounded men had been moved to the palace’s _asclepeion_ , a healing temple where priests would pray for a fast recovery and offer sacrifices to the gods.

The hall was deserted but for a few men drinking wine, seated at the long tables, talking in hushed voices. Patroclus stood there in the center of the room, out of place. His father was not there, and neither was Duris.

“Patroclus.” This was Odysseus’ voice. “What news from the town?”

Patroclus did not have time to speak. The door to the hall burst open, banging hard against the stone walls. Menoitius was practically running, his face red with anger. Patroclus had not felt so afraid of his father in years. Duris was rushing behind him.

“Patroclus,” his father sneered down at him. “Tell me that Duris is spinning a tale.”

The kings were all standing now, confused and alarmed by the ruckus.

“What’s going on?” Agamemnon asked, always the most suspicious. “Did the prince see something?”

His father did not speak for a moment, and Patroclus could tell that he was ashamed to admit it. That his own son had been the rat they’d been trying so hard to sniff out. He would have known if he’d paid more attention, they would say. He was not fit to lead this attack if his own son could betray him.

“Patroclus saw the nereid,” Duris shouted. “He was talking to it.”

Normally Duris would have been scolded for speaking out of turn, for interrupting a king. But his words were so shocking that no one noticed his slight.

“Impossible,” Odysseus exclaimed.

“I saw him!” Duris shouted. He looked ready to burst into tears. “They were nearly on top of each other, embracing each other like lovers.”

Patroclus felt cold, numb and frozen in that room, the kings towering around him. He could sense their shock, their betrayal, their anger.

“Is this true, Patroclus?” his father asked, voice a rumbling growl. He was barely restraining himself from striking him right there in the hall.

Patroclus took a breath to steady his voice. He imagined lying, denying everything.

“Yes,” he said, instead.

There was a rush of breath from the kings.

“Impossible,” Odysseus said, again. “Why?”

“Who cares why?” Agamemnon interrupted. “I believe the punishment has already been decided. King Menoitius, you enacted this law yourself. The boy must die.”

“Surely there must be a mistake,” Odysseus said. Patroclus did not know why this man seemed so keen to defend him. Perhaps he did not want Patroclus’ untimely death on his hands.

“Agamemnon is right,” his father’s voice was harsh. “The punishment is already decided.”

“It could not have been Patroclus,” Diomedes said. “How would he have known Odysseus’ plan with the poison? This is all an unfortunate coincidence.”

Patroclus did not have to look up to see the realization in Odysseus’ eyes. The memory of that time in the garden.

“I—” Odysseus began, clearing his throat. “I did see Patroclus in the garden that day. I had forgotten.”

That was it, then. There was nothing that could save him. He would be sentenced to death, and he would never see Achilles again.

The kings were talking in their loud, commanding voices, but Patroclus hardly heard them. His heart was beating frantically, a ticking clock counting down his seconds left on earth. He wondered how they would do it, what it would feel like to die. Would Achilles cry when he heard, would he try and avenge him? Achilles was nearly a god; he would live for hundreds of years. How long would it be before he forgot Patroclus entirely? Before he could not remember his name, his face, the sound of his voice? Standing there in that room, Patroclus already felt dead.

“I have a suggestion,” Agamemnon said. “Your son need not die pointlessly, King Menoitius.”

“Go on,” Menoitius said, annoyed.

“If Duris’ account is correct, the nereid obviously cares somewhat for your son. We use his execution as bait to lure it in and, when it is close enough, kill it.”

 _No,_ Patroclus nearly shouted. He stopped himself, barely.

“Nereids don’t care about humans,” Diomedes said. “They are not like us.”

“That is not how Duris made it sound.”

“Diomedes is correct,” Odysseus said, hesitantly. “The nereids cannot feel love for humans. They are mindless killers.”

“Let us simply ask,” Agamemnon said, eyes narrowed, leering. “Does the nereid care for you, Patroclus?”

“No,” Patroclus said, without hesitation. He knew he’d spoken too soon, that they would see through his lie. But he could not let them do this.

“An outdoor execution, then,” Menoitius said. “On a ship.”

“On my ship,” Agamemnon clarified. “This was my idea.”

“And yet it is my son you propose to use as bait,” Menoitius argued. “The credit is at least half due to me.”

Agamemnon laughed, a terrible sound.

“Your son has been feeding our plans to the nereid, and you want to take credit? I will assume that was a joke.”

Menoitius was fuming now, gripping the sword on his belt.

“I am going to lose my only son.”

“It is easy enough to have another,” Agamemnon said, dismissively. He was not going to back down. Patroclus was silently praying that they killed each other. _Please, let this be over._

Of course, they did not. His father knew this was a losing battle. Patroclus was no great loss, but he would not lose the golden-tailed nereid to Mycenae.

“We will split the gold, then,” Menoitius suggested. “You have been staying at my palace and it is my right to demand compensation.”

“Perhaps,” Odysseus interrupted. “We should wait and see who actually kills it. It may be your ship, Agamemnon, and your son, Menoitius, but no king has yet to deliver the fatal blow.”

“It will be me,” Agamemnon said. “There is no one else who can.”

“I ask simply that we wait before concerning ourselves with the division of gold,” Odysseus said, hands raised in a sort of surrender.

“Odysseus is correct,” Menoitius said, grudgingly. “We have more important plans, anyway.”

His father called over a guard to escort Patroclus to his room, where he would stay until the time of his execution. Patroclus walked down the hall, his mind racing, while the rest of the world blurred around him. He had seen the guard before – the same one who’d found him on the beach all those years ago. He no longer looked at Patroclus with half-lidded eyes, bored and uninterested. He looked as though any minute Patroclus might grow claws and kill him.

Patroclus shut the door to his room, and began to pace. He needed to escape. He needed to somehow warn Achilles about their trap. Perhaps he would not come, Patroclus thought. He would know that it was a set up, and be forced to let Patroclus die.

The thought was little comfort. Patroclus tried to imagine if their places were reversed. He would never let anything happen to Achilles, and found it difficult to convince himself that Achilles would not try and stop Patroclus’ execution.

Patroclus did not sleep that night. He watched the sun rise with bleary eyes, the dawn casting Opus in a red glow. When a knock came on his door, he did not move from his place on the bed. He’d been clutching the flower crown all night, and stuffed it hurriedly under the bed. He knew, after his death, that they would eventually find it and sell it, or destroy it. But he did not want to see them take it away.

“Prince Patroclus,” a guard’s voice called. “The king has summoned you.”

Patroclus’ feet felt heavy as he walked the length of his room, allowing the guard to escort him to the great hall, where his father was waiting atop his throne.

“Patroclus,” he said, voice filled with anger and disgust. And underneath, triumph. Despite Odysseus and Diomedes’ misgivings, he knew that this was their best chance. “You have been sentenced to death by drowning for conspiring with the nereid.”

Patroclus had always thought, when his time came to die, he would feel almost resigned to it. He had spent his entire childhood wishing he were dead, thinking that whatever came after – the underworld, the afterlife – would be a relief compared to the life he’d been living. When he met Achilles, that all changed. Now, he did not feel resigned at all. He was terrified. His death would bring about Achilles’ own. He could not stand to think of it – his bright smile and kind eyes, easy laugh and gentle smile, being picked apart by the kings of Greece. He did not move a muscle, and waited until the guards came and herded him outside and towards the dock, onto Agamemnon’s ship.

* * *

The bright sunrise had since evolved into a dreary day, storm clouds gathering thick above the sea, waves rough and foreboding. Patroclus did not meet the eyes of the kings, though he could feel their gaze on him. He watched the spears in their hands, sharpened, ready to kill.

Agamemnon was shouting orders to his sailors, and the guards sat Patroclus down on a bench before hurrying off. They did not want to be caught out on the sea. A low rumble of thunder accompanied a cold breeze that sent a chill across Patroclus’ skin. He’d asked Achilles once what thunderstorms were like from under the water. Quiet, he’d said. Like being caught in a strong breeze. It was harder to swim, sometimes. Patroclus could picture exactly where they were when he’d said it, out a ways into the sea. They’d raced so far they could no longer see the shoreline. Achilles was holding Patroclus, balancing him in his arms so that he would not have to exhaust himself treading water. He remembered the press of Achilles’ nose in his hair, his breath against his ear. He closed his eyes, and listened as another crack of thunder rang out through the air. Louder, this time. Poseidon’s wrath.

“A good day for sailing,” Odysseus remarked, raising an eyebrow at the black clouds. “I do not suppose there is any point in suggesting we postpone this adventure?”

“No, there is not,” Menoitius said, gruffly.

Patroclus had not even noticed that Duris had come along until he sat down beside him. A guard had bound his hands together behind him, as though he might try and escape. He had considered it, briefly. But he was clumsy and slow, and would not make it far.

“We are going to kill your friend,” Duris said, his voice detached. “I will pluck the scales from it myself. I will be wearing gold to your funeral.”

Patroclus might have tried to hit him if he could, but his hands were bound tightly, nearly cutting circulation.

Duris was gone a moment later, up at the front of the ship. A bolt of lightning was thrown across the sky, lighting up the clouds. Another crack of thunder followed. Then, the rain.

“Let’s go!” Agamemnon shouted, and the ship began to move from the harbor, pushed easily by the racing wind. They were out in the middle of the sea, their ship tossed around so that Patroclus was thrown from his seat and onto the slippery deck of the ship, unable to break his fall. His head hit hard against the wooden boards, and he was dizzy as he tried to stand. A moment later he was being yanked up by the back of his shirt, forced to the edge of the ship.

“Now?” his father asked.

He wanted to beg for them to please, please not do this. But he knew it would not matter. His father had been waiting for an excuse to get rid of him for years, and the kings saw only the promise of finally catching the nereid that had killed so many, that would make them all insanely rich.

“It is a shame,” he heard Odysseus’ voice say, barely, over the howling of the wind.

His father was kneeling before him now, tying his feet together. This was real, he was going to drown. Achilles could not save him – if he did, he would die too. And that could not happen, no matter what.

He heard Agamemnon shouting further orders to his crew, the ship moving farther and farther into the sea. The rain had picked up now and Patroclus’ face was pelted with the cold water. He could hardly see. These did not feel like his final moments on earth.

“At your leisure, King,” Agamemnon said.

Patroclus did not know who it was that eventually led him over the edge of the ship. He did not know who it was that pushed him, slightly, until he stumbled and fell into the icy water below. The fall was higher than he’d thought, and it felt as though he were suspended in the air for a minute or two, though he knew that wasn’t possible. The sea hit him roughly, knocking the breath that he’d been holding from his lungs. Sea water filled his mouth, his nose, filling him with a new terror, an intense need to survive. He tried to swim, but his hands and feet were bound, and there was nothing stopping his body from sinking. He could not come up for air. He tried to open his eyes, but saw only darkness around him, heard only the growl of the sea as it moved in the storm.

Then, a calm washed over him. This was it. How long had he been under the water? Achilles had not come. Their plan had failed. He felt cold, numb, and relieved. There was a humming in the sea now that filled him with warmth, happiness. He no longer felt afraid.

It hit him all at once. He could feel arms around his waist, familiar, soft and gentle. _No no no,_ he wanted to shout, but he could not. The humming in the water was like a drug, soothing him. Achilles was here. He saw that Patroclus was panicking and was attempting to calm him down.

He was above the water, spluttering and coughing and shaking the water from his eyes. They burned against the harsh winds, stinging with salt. He saw Achilles before him, holding him, looking at him with confusion and concern. He held something in his hands, a knife made from a broken shell. He was cutting the ropes from Patroclus’ hands. Distantly, he could hear the harsh shouting of the kings.

“Achilles,” he said, coughing. “Achilles, run.”

“Patroclus,” Achilles said, his voice soft, soothing. “They are going to kill you. You have to come with me.”

Achilles was below the water, and Patroclus could feel him cutting the ropes from his feet.

A spear flew by his face, so close Patroclus could feel the wind passed his ear. It fell into the water directly where Achilles had gone.

“ _Achilles_ ,” Patroclus was screaming now, desperate.

Achilles was beside him once more, grabbing his hand, trying to pull him along. But Patroclus could never out-swim these spears.

“Achilles, there’s no point. Run, please.”

Achilles turned to look at him, those wide green eyes that had always been too innocent. He was not going to leave Patroclus behind.

He started to speak, but it was too late. The spear flew over Patroclus’ head, and buried itself in Achilles’ stomach. He could not see the wound through the darkness of the sea. He saw the stunned pain on Achilles’ face, felt the weakening of his grip on Patroclus’ hand. He saw the blood flowering around them, sickeningly warm. Patroclus grabbed onto him, easily finding where the spear had pierced him. It fell away, and he tossed it aside. He pressed his hand against the gash. It was not deep enough to be fatal – it could not be. He could barely stay above water now; the storm around them was raging. Where were the sea nymphs, Phorcys, Poseidon? Why would they not help Achilles?

Patroclus pressed his hand harder against Achilles’ stomach, cradling him. His eyes were open, watching Patroclus. He had never seen Achilles afraid before.

“Poison,” Achilles managed, spitting the word. He was limp in Patroclus’ arms.

Patroclus could see the ship approaching them, and knew he could not escape. They would both be killed. He wanted to scream, and cry. He gripped onto Achilles as tightly as he could manage. He would not let them take him.

“Achilles, don’t worry,” he said. He was nearly shouting over the pounding of the waves, the howling of the wind. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

Achilles gave him a small smile. “I won’t let them hurt _you_.”

The ship was close to them now. He could hear Agamemnon’s voice, calling for a small rowboat to be brought around to gather them. Patroclus clutched Achilles close, he could feel the soft swish of his tail through the water. It was more of a nervous twitch than any actual attempt to escape. Achilles would not be able to get them out of this.

Patroclus tried to call for Thetis. For Phorcys, for Poseidon. He shouted the name of the monsters, the sea nymphs. They were dragged onto the boat, spears at their throats. No one came to help them.

“Don’t try anything,” the sailor threatened. The tip of his spear brushed against Achilles’ throat, and Patroclus nearly punched him in the face.

“Let us go,” Achilles said, his green eyes clear. He was speaking to the sailor. “Let us go, return to the ship, and kill all of the men onboard.”

Patroclus turned to Achilles, still applying pressure to the wound. There was blood coating his fingers. Achilles looked pale, his lips nearly white.

“All right,” the sailor said, dazed. He lowered his spear.

 _Hypnosis,_ Patroclus realized. But it was not enough.

There were four men on board the boat with them and it was easy enough to restrain one man once they realized what was going on. Achilles was all but useless laying there, his golden tail so powerful in the water, laid out across the boat, shining bright despite the clouds in the sky. The sailors gawked at it, greedy. Patroclus wanted to kill them all. But he could not. He was the only thing keeping Achilles alive.

They were brought around the ship to where someone had lowered a sturdy wooden ladder.

“Go first,” the sailor commanded. “And bring the nereid.”

It was difficult to lift Achilles, who was dead weight in his arms. He thought about making an escape. Dropping Achilles in the water and distracting them. But then what? Achilles would bleed to death, unable to swim.

The deck of the ship was slippery from the waves and Patroclus took each step with care.

There, waiting, he saw the kings. Agamemnon, his face as delighted as he’d ever seen it. His father, looking at Patroclus with something resembling pride. Just a moment ago they’d been trying to execute him. He wasn’t so sure they’d given that up.

“Put it down over there,” Agamemnon commanded. He gestured to a small crevice in the middle of the ship, where they would be farthest away from the rails. Patroclus walked over, slowly, Achilles still clasped in his arms. He sat down, Achilles in his lap, pulled against his chest.

His father was before them, then, hesitant. He had a thin strip of black fabric in his hand, like a torn shirt. He is scared of Achilles, Patroclus realized. Achilles was half-conscious, bleeding out in his arms, and still managed to terrify these kings of Greece.

His father tossed the fabric to Patroclus.

“Put that over its eyes,” he ordered. “No one else is going to be hypnotized.”

“No,” Patroclus said, his voice was thick with tears. He had not realized he’d been crying. His face was so damp with salt water it was impossible to tell.

“If you want to live, you will do as I say.” His father seemed almost amused. He knew he’d won. Patroclus had never felt so close to murder in his life.

“No,” Patroclus said, again.

“Patroclus,” Achilles whispered. _Pa-tro-clus._ “It’s okay.”

There was fear in Achilles’ voice that had nothing to do with his impending death. His green eyes flickered between Patroclus and Menoitius. He was afraid that his father would make good on his threat.

Patroclus took the fabric and tied it loosely across Achilles’ eyes. He pulled his hand away from the wound and noticed with a sigh of relief that it had stopped bleeding. But Achilles was still unable to move, paralyzed from the poison.

“Restrain him,” Agamemnon ordered. Patroclus did not have time to protest. Guards grabbed his arms, and forced him away from Achilles. He fought, kicked, screamed. They were too strong, and their spears were aimed at him. Achilles fell weakly against the ship without Patroclus to support him. He was completely vulnerable.

Agamemnon approached cautiously. Patroclus could see Achilles shaking, his tail twitching. He was terrified, and Patroclus could do nothing to help.

“Stay away from him,” he tried, but the king merely laughed.

Achilles had fallen onto his side, and it was with a rain-slicked boot that Agamemnon pushed him over, onto his back. His boot was pressed against Achilles’ outstretched arm, pressing down.

“You have caused us a great deal of trouble, nereid,” he said. “Now you are going to make me rich.”

The men were untangling the sails, preparing for the journey back to the harbor. The rain was still coming down in sheets, and Agamemnon could barely be heard. He took out a knife, sharp, with a silver handle that flashed in the pale grey light. He brought it down on Achilles’ tail, cutting away the golden shards with an easy flick.

Patroclus could hear nothing but Achilles’ choked scream, cut off as he bit his tongue, desperate to retain some semblance of composure. Agamemnon held the gold in his hands, turning the bloody scales over and over in his palm. Menoitius approached and glared at them.

Gold was prized above all else in Greece, and all eyes were on the pieces in Agamemnon’s hands. Patroclus knew this was his chance. He twisted in the guard’s arms and grabbed the spear from his hands. He ran at Agamemnon and his father, screaming, full of rage.

If it had been anyone else, they would have fought back without hesitation. But Patroclus had never been regarded seriously; he’d always been too weak to fight, too clumsy to pose any actual threat. They stood there in shock for only half a moment, but it was all Patroclus needed. He knocked Agamemnon backwards with the force of his weight, aiming the spear at his stomach.

He was going to kill him. His father had reached for his sword, hesitating, unsure whether or not to come to Agamemnon’s aid.

“I would not,” Agamemnon said, his hands raised. He had only the knife that he’d used to cut Achilles. Patroclus could still see the blood dripping from its blade.

“Then let us go,” Patroclus said.

“What will killing me accomplish?” Agamemnon asked. His voice was calm, casual. Patroclus hated it. “Your father will only kill the nereid, instead. I am sorry, Prince. He is going to die.”

Patroclus turned, he had lost track of his father after he’d failed to aid Agamemnon. Now he was standing over Achilles, his tail drenched in blood, blind-folded still, helpless on the deck of the ship. Menoitius’ spear touched the softness of Achilles’ pale neck.

“Please,” Patroclus tried. There were guards all around him. Odysseus and Diomedes had their weapons drawn. He did not know what he’d been thinking threatening Agamemnon. Of course there was no way for him to escape. “Please, don’t. The nereids aren’t just killers. They are exactly like us. This is wrong. Please.”

“A moment ago you would have stabbed me,” Agamemnon’s voice was cold. “And now you attempt to appeal to my sympathies? I have none for monsters.”

Patroclus was desperate. It was impossible to reason with these people. He tried something else.

“So you will allow my father to take the credit for his murder?” he blurted out, frantic. “You will allow him to take the gold?”

Menoitius’ face was red with rage. He had hoped Agamemnon would not notice this.

“Your son raises a valid point,” Agamemnon said, stepping around Patroclus to face Menoitius. “It is I who wounded the nereid.”

“Although the poison was my idea,” Odysseus interrupted. The two kings turned to glare at him.

“What?” Odysseus asked. “Your blow, King of Mycenae, was not even fatal. Without the poison, we would never have captured the nereid.”

“It is still my son who lured him in,” Menoitius said. “And we are in my kingdom.”

“On my ship. And it was I who threw the spear.”

“Which would have been all but useless without the poison.”

“Which you stole from my garden.”

The arguing was incessant, and the kings were in each other’s faces, enraged. Patroclus knelt beside Achilles, and grabbed his hand. It was ice cold. He tore the blindfold from his eyes. They were closed, motionless.

“Achilles,” Patroclus whispered. He did not want to attract attention.

Achilles did not respond. He pressed a kiss to Achilles lips, not caring who saw. Teardrops fell softly onto Achilles’ face. Patroclus had not noticed he was crying.

“Achilles,” he said, again.

Achilles stirred, slightly. His hand tightened around Patroclus’ own.

“Patroclus.” His voice was tired, small. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Patroclus said. He leaned down, touching his nose to Achilles’, burying himself in his presence, the soothing beat of his heart.

“They did not hurt you?” Achilles asked. His eyes were opened now, barely. Green flecked with gold, dazed and drugged.

“No,” Patroclus said. “How are you? Achilles, the poison is hemlock. Did your mother say how poisonous it was to you? Will it kill you?”

“No,” Achilles assured. He was trying to smile, to act like everything was fine. Patroclus wanted to hate him for it. He was always trying to be strong. “No, it will eventually wear off. I will be fine. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” Patroclus said. He gripped Achilles hand. “I will save you. Don’t worry.”

“I am not worried, Patroclus.” He attempted to smile again and Patroclus brushed his hand gently across his face, soothing. Achilles was his entire life. They belonged to each other; they were half each other’s souls. He could not die.

The kings took no notice of Patroclus and Achilles. They did not notice Duris, either – his hand gripped around a knife, his rage increasing as the kings argued and argued and nothing was done to avenge his father’s death.

He approached them, finally.

“I should be the one to kill the nereid,” he said. “It was my father it killed.”

He was ignored by the kings, by Patroclus and Achilles.

Patroclus did not see Duris until a blade was brought across his neck, pressing cold. He startled, but did not move. Achilles’ eyes were wide, terrified.

“No,” he said. He was attempting hypnosis but his eyes were hazy and could not focus. “Put down the blade.”

“I should cut your throat, Patroclus,” Duris said, breath hot in his ear. “But I think it might be worse for you to watch your friend die.”

“You cannot kill him,” Patroclus hissed, heart racing. “Achilles is the child of the sea god Phorcys and he will not let you live.”

“ _Achilles_ ,” Duris said, spitting the name. “Doesn’t seem to have anyone coming to help him. I suppose that’s what he gets for being friends with you.”

Duris pushed Patroclus aside, hovering over Achilles, raising his knife in the air. It never fell. Patroclus did not see the spear that killed Duris, only his side blooming with blood, the clattering of the knife as it hit the deck of the ship. Patroclus called out, scrambling backwards in fright. He recovered himself a moment later, and ran to Achilles.

“What have you done?” Odysseus’ voice.

“He was going to kill the nereid.” Agamemnon.

“You have killed a child.” His father. The irony did not escape Patroclus.

“You were only a moment ago prepared to kill your own.”

“Enough,” Menoitius said. “I am going to end this.”

He marched over, his footsteps seemed to shake the ground. They were nearly in port. Patroclus covered Achilles with his body; he would not move. If Achilles died, then so would he.

“Patroclus, move,” his father ordered. There was a time when he had been too afraid to say no to that voice. He remembered the first time he’d betrayed his father – the first time he’d lied about seeing Achilles.

Patroclus closed his eyes, he could feel Achilles gripping his arms, pushing him weakly, whispering for him to run, run, _please run._

“So be it.”

“You cannot be serious,” Odysseus said.

“The boy is sentenced to death regardless.”

“Not like this!”

“Enough.” A voice dark and powerful enough to chill the blood of the kings around them. Patroclus felt Achilles twitch beneath him. He turned.

A creature stood before them, taller and more terrifying than anything Patroclus had ever witnessed. It was huge, with a long fish-tail thick with blood red spikes. The air around them seemed heavy, pulsating. _Phorcys,_ Patroclus knew. His eyes were glowing a deep red.

“Careful,” Agamemnon said, his booming voice sounding almost childish after Phorcys’ own. His spear was hovering above Achilles. “I will kill him.”

“Do it, then.”

Patroclus could not register the words, could not make sense of them. It was impossible, Phorcys must be here to help Achilles, there was no other reason–

He saw Phorcys lift a spiked hand and with a vague motion, Patroclus flew to the other end of the ship, hitting hard against the railing, away from Achilles.

He tried to get back up, but was kept down by the force of the god, an invisible power that radiated darkness and nausea.

He met Achilles’ eyes. Bright green and gold. There was reassurance in them, a comfort. Even now, he was telling Patroclus that it was okay. That everything would be fine. He watched Agamemnon’s spear bury itself in Achilles. A fatal wound, impossible to survive.

He screamed and screamed, unable to move. He watched Phorcys fold Agamemnon’s ship in half with barely a motion, and then he was plunged into the water. The spell was broken. All around him was cracking wood and the screams of men, and his own screaming – Achilles’ name over and over. He had to find him. He would not let his body be lost to the sea forever, unable to rest.

But the waves were strong, powerful as they’d ever been, and they fell on Patroclus with increasing force. He tried to hold onto anything, one of the broken pieces of wood, a torn sail mast, but they were impossible to catch. He was dragged deeper and deeper into the sea, until his vision was black and his lungs burned, and he knew that this was it – he was going to die. He had not saved Achilles. He did not know if he’d ever see him again. What would the afterlife be like for Achilles? He considered it, his final waking thoughts. He hoped it would be a field full of figs, and that maybe when he ate them, he would think of Patroclus, and forgive him.

* * *

His world was darkness, sweet and numb. _Death_ , he thought. It was peaceful; he did not feel afraid. He heard a sound, a buzzing. For a brief moment, he thought that it might be Achilles’ song. He would always calm Patroclus down. He would always make him smile.

The darkness was fading, and his body ached. He remembered with a start, like a kick to the gut: Achilles is dead. The buzzing was louder now – voices. He could not make out their words, they sounded frantic, afraid. He tried to open his eyes, to move his hands. He could not.

He heard someone say his name. He heard someone say, _it’s the prince._ He heard them mention his father’s name. He heard them calling for help.

He opened his eyes, at last. It was night, and the stars were twinkling in the sky. It was an odd sight. Hadn’t there been a storm? He traced the outlines of the stars with his eyes, still unable to move. His body was throbbing, aching. He was covered in something – sand, water, blood. He traced the patterns of the gods in the stars. He’d told Achilles about them, once, following the sky with his finger. Achilles had told him his own stories about the stars. They were so happy.

“He’s alive.” A man’s voice, panicked. “Get him back to the palace immediately, and call a healer.”

Someone lifted him, and he tried to breathe, to speak. He did not know what he’d say – did you find Achilles? Is he alive? Is he safe? But Patroclus knew the truth. He closed his eyes and saw it again and again. Agamemnon’s spear. Achilles’ eyes, still trying to comfort Patroclus even when he knew that he was going to die.

He might have screamed, he did not know. He could not breathe; his lungs would not take in air. _Asthma attack,_ he thought. He did not care. His body was convulsing, trying desperately to save him. He hoped they would not make it back to the castle in time. He did not want to live.

* * *

He did not know how long he’d been unconscious. When he awoke, he was warm, dry, laid out in the great hall. Someone was touching his arm, wrapping it with a bandage. Turning his head was agony, but he did not mind the pain. There was a girl beside him. She looked up, startled, when he turned his head.

“Prince,” she said. It took Patroclus a moment to recognize Briseis, her dark brown eyes filled with concern. He had only ever seen her from a distance. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” Patroclus lied. He knew that she would try to sedate him with poppy and willow-bark, and he did not want to fall back asleep. He did not want to dream of Achilles dying, or worse, Achilles alive and well. He did not want to wake up again to a harsh, cruel reality.

“You are fortunate to have survived,” Briseis’ voice was hesitant, soft. “Perhaps I should not be the one to tell you.” A pause, a heartbeat. “You were the only one.”

“My father?” Patroclus asked. His voice was scratchy and dull.

“His body was not yet found, but they are searching for him as well as the other kings.”

Patroclus nodded. He did not feel anything.

“Let me know if there is anything you require,” Briseis said. “I will leave you to your rest.”

He heard her walk off, but knew she would not go far. His father was dead, and he was the king now. He would have to be kept alive to rule Opus.

The thought terrified him. It filled him with a hot rage, melting the numbness that had kept him so subdued. His father was dead, and half the kings of Greece along with him. And Achilles. And yet, Patroclus had survived. He wanted to laugh at the wrongness of it all. He wished Briseis would come back and offer him a sedative. He was already living his worst nightmare; there was nothing his subconscious could offer that would be worse.

* * *

It took him only a week to recover. Advisors were called from neighboring kingdoms to aid in what was referred to as an emergency in Opus. Patroclus was never taught the intricacies of ruling a kingdom, and would need all the help he could find.

The advisors joked, Patroclus must have had a god looking out for him to have survived the shipwreck. That’s what they called it, a _shipwreck._ He nodded. He did have a god watching out for him, and he had died because of it.

He sat on his father’s throne. One advisor, an old man who had come all the way from Phthia, handed him the crown. It was cold and heavy in his hands, and the red nereid scales flashed in the light from the torches hanging on the wall. He was nearly sick.

“I am sorry,” the old man said. “But we were unable to find the body of the golden-tailed nereid.”

He paused, as though Patroclus might speak.

“I know it must be a great loss,” he continued. “To lose all of that gold. We will continue our search.”

Patroclus could feel tears behind his eyes, and knew he was going to vomit. He threw the crown down, and heard it clang against the stone floors. He heard the soft gasps from his advisors.

“It does not matter,” he said, his voice harsh, broken. He pushed passed them and out the door into his own room.

He grabbed Achilles’ crown from under his bed, and marched through the hallways into the gardens. Someone might have tried to stop him – a guard, an advisor. He did not hear them. It was quiet in the gardens; many of the plants were dead with the approaching winter. Achilles had made the crown with flowers from the sea – turquoise, pink, lavender – they would never die. Patroclus easily found the plant that Odysseus had been collecting.

He gathered it into his pocket and walked towards the sea. The beach was deserted, in disarray. Pieces of Agamemnon’s ship were littered here and there. Servants had been called to clean up, but there were none out today. Patroclus sat, his feet touching the waves, the crown beside him. He held the hemlock in his hands. He knew that death by poison would be agonizing. He did not care. Nothing could be worse than this – a life without Achilles.

“Patroclus.”

A female voice, rough like a ship against stone, and sad as he’d ever heard. Patroclus looked up from the poison in his hands and saw Thetis, standing tall in the waves, her black dress whipping against her in the wind. Patroclus thought he might feel afraid, but he did not. Thetis did not appear threatening, her normal aura dwindled. She is grieving, Patroclus realized. For Achilles.

 _Good,_ he thought. Let her. Why had she not come to help him?

“I did not know,” she said. “I did not know of their plan. They were angry with Achilles for going to Thrinacia. Phorcys wanted to punish him.”

 _Thrinacia._ It took Patroclus a moment to remember the name of the island where Achilles had wanted to go, to gather the herb that would make Patroclus one of them.

“He did it for you,” Thetis said. Her voice was flat, impossible to read. “He wanted to live forever with you.”

“I’m sorry,” Patroclus said. His throat was choked with tears. “I did not want him to die.”

“They lied to me. They said Achilles would not be a part of the attack.” She was angry, and the sky darkened with her wrath.

“Where is he?” Patroclus asked. “Has he gone to the underworld?”

“Death is different for us,” she said. “Achilles has gone to Elysium. It is an island of eternal spring. It is beautiful, peaceful. He will be happy there.”

Patroclus felt an intense relief wash over him. He had heard of Elysium, the Isle of the Blessed. It was reserved for heroes and gods. He could never go there, even in death. His soul would be trapped in the underworld, forever.

Thetis was walking towards him, seeming to float through the water. She was only a few feet away, hesitating. She held something in her hands that Patroclus could not see.

“Did he make that?” she asked, motioning to the crown.

“Yes,” Patroclus said. There were tears running down his face now that he did not try to stop. He held the crown protectively in his arms.

“Achilles was born to fight for the nereids, to destroy those who would hunt us.” Thetis’ voice was distant. “Now the kings are dead. It does not seem worth it.”

“There was nothing,” Patroclus muttered. “That could have been worth his death.”

Thetis let something fall from her pale hands, a small green plant, into the water. It floated in the waves and touched against Patroclus’ bare feet.

“If you are planning to die,” Thetis said. “Take that first. Achilles would never forgive me if I allowed your soul to be sent to the underworld, where he could not find you.”

Patroclus held the herb in his hands. It did not look like it could perform magic. He had so many questions, but did not ask them. He did not want Thetis to remember that she hated him, that it was his fault Achilles was dead. He wanted only to see Achilles again. To feel the comforting weight of his arms, the soothing softness of his voice. He wanted to see him smile, and laugh.

“Thank you,” Patroclus said. He looked up from his hands, and Thetis was gone.

He took the herb and the hemlock in his hands, brought them to his lips. He did not hesitate. He swallowed them, closing his eyes. He heard the sound of the waves, a rhythmic beating against the sand. He felt a twisting in his stomach as pain shot through him. He clawed at his face, tugged at his hair. He was numb, then, and could not move.

Someone said his name. _Pa-tro-clus._ Ringing out each syllable like a song, like a spell.

Patroclus opened his eyes. He was still on a beach, but it was different. Brighter, and full of a radiating energy. He turned and Achilles was beside him, smiling, bright green eyes and golden hair. He leaned in to kiss him. Patroclus said his name: _Achilles._

They would have eternity together now, and Patroclus would never tire of it – the love, the forever calm, the tireless joy. Achilles tugged his hand, pulling him close.

“I missed you,” he said.


End file.
